THE MISSING MAID

THE BAKER STREET MYSTERIES

HOLLY HEPBURN

To Barrow in Furness Library, who first introduced me to the adventures of Sherlock Holmes

‘I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.’

— SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Author’s Note

More From Holly Hepburn

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Poison & Pens

About Boldwood Books

1

When Harry White looked back, many years later, she supposed she owed almost all of her incredible adventures to the unlikeliest of people – a Mr Simeon Pemberton, Assistant Manager (London and Middlesex) of the Abbey Road Building Society on Baker Street in London. Had he not formed a most inappropriate, not to say entirely unprofessional, attachment to her while she worked as his personal secretary, Harry might never have read the letter that set her on the exhilarating yet perilous path that would shape the rest of her life. Not that Mr Pemberton had any idea how profoundly his petty revenge would affect her, of course. He had only meant to seduce her, with scant regard for her feelings in the matter, or those of his poor wife, and his incredulous outrage when she had rebuffed his advances had hardened into malice and led him to exact the only punishment possible.

‘I’m afraid there’s been a departmental reshuffle, Miss White,’ he said, thin lips unsmiling beneath the bottle-brush moustache that Harry knew he took excessive care to groom each morning. His pouchy eyes glittered with unspoken resentment as he regarded her across the vast mahogany desk. ‘As a result, your services are no longer required.’

She stared at him, indignation and shock momentarily threatening her impeccable self-control. He couldn’t sack her – she had always been a model employee and surely a sudden termination would raise eyebrows in other departments of the bank, leading to awkwardness she was sure he would prefer to avoid. And while she was certain Mr Pemberton had no idea of her true status in life, or her family connections, he must have observed that she was not quite like the other young ladies who worked for the Abbey Road Building Society; along with an air of quiet competence, she exuded a genteel self-assurance that hinted at steel beneath her porcelain-doll features. It was probably what had caught his eye in the first place and it gave her a small measure of comfort now. No, she decided as her heart rate returned to normal, he couldn’t mean to sack her.

Smoothing the herringbone pattern of her soft wool skirt, Harry folded her hands in her lap and took refuge in glacial politeness. ‘I see.’

‘Fortunately, I’ve been able to locate a vacant position in another department,’ Mr Pemberton went on. ‘A back-room role that requires no understanding of the banking business. I believe it will suit your abilities perfectly. You are to start this morning – immediately, in fact.’

It was barely nine o’clock. He hadn’t even allowed her to remove her hat before summoning her to his office, much less pick up any of the work she’d left unfinished the previous day. ‘I see,’ she said again. ‘There are a number of tasks I should complete—’

‘Immediately, Miss White,’ he cut in brusquely. ‘That means right away, since you seem unsure. The work you have left outstanding can be picked up by your replacement. She will also send any sundry personal items or detritus to your new department.’

A glimmer of triumph played across his pudgy features and Harry knew he was daring her to take the bait, to give him a reason to do what he so clearly longed to. She was almost tempted – it wasn’t as though she needed to work after all – but she was blowed if she’d give him the satisfaction. Her family prided themselves on graciousness in the face of incivility; their family motto was SUIS STAT VIRBUS – He stands by his own strength – and she had no intention of letting this odious creep of a man see that he had rattled her. There wasn’t much at her desk anyway, perhaps a peace lily and some rather fine Fortnum and Mason biscuits, an old pair of leather gloves that she could live without.

Summoning up a bland smile, Harry rose. ‘Of course, Mr Pemberton. If you’ll tell me which department, I’ll report there now.’

The crispness of his reply did nothing to disguise his evident self-satisfaction. ‘It’s the post room,’ he said, pushing a white envelope across the polished wooden surface of the desk until it rested within her reach. ‘You’ll find it in the basement. Ask for Babbage; he’ll show you where you are to work.’

It was another insult, calculated to elicit a reaction. The post room played a vital role in the everyday running of any banking institution but it was no place for a woman of education and refined manners. Harry had no doubt that Mr Pemberton expected her to throw her hands up in anger and alarm. ‘Of course,’ she said, taking the letter with steady fingers. ‘Thank you.’

Turning, she crossed the wood-panelled office, heels clicking on the parquet floor. Simeon Pemberton let her reach the door before he spoke again. ‘One final matter, Miss White. It may be that your new colleagues indulge in gossip and tittle-tattle about other departments of the bank, but I would remind you that everything occurring within these walls remains highly confidential.’

It was possible he meant inside information about who might be defaulting on a loan or increasing a mortgage but Harry would never share details like that and besides, she couldn’t imagine many of the post room staff caring. No, Pemberton meant his lascivious eye and bumbling efforts to seduce her, she thought. He didn’t want any whispers about that to work their way around the gleaming new building, much less her emphatic rejection of his advances. She paused in the door frame and met his forbidding frown with a coolly raised eyebrow. ‘Understood, Mr Pemberton. You may be sure I will remain as professional as ever.’

Head held high, she closed the door and set off in search of her new office.

Neither the magnificent marble staircase in the entrance hall nor the gilt-edged elevator beside it serviced the post room. To reach the basement, Harry was obliged to make her way beyond the bustling, chandelier-lit showiness of the public areas and into the rear of the building, where the considerably less grand service lift conveyed her underground.

When the metal doors slid open, they revealed a brick-lined corridor illuminated by a row of light bulbs in the ceiling. The distant clang of machinery and cheerful raised voices floated towards her, and a curious aroma hung in the air, the oily tang of industry mingled with the scent of cigarettes and manual labour. Harry fought the urge to wrinkle her nose as she stepped out of the lift; it was a stark contrast to the hushed, flower and furniture polish order of the offices upstairs and something of her determination to show Mr Pemberton that she would not be cowed wavered. But she hadn’t been raised to shy away from difficulty, even though she was well aware her life had not involved much struggle so far. Once again, she straightened her shoulders and went to find Mr Babbage.

The corridor opened into a wide rectangular room that was a maelstrom of noise and confusion. She stood for a moment, taking in the enormous, noisy contraption that dominated the centre of the room but whose exact purpose she couldn’t immediately define, the men in checked shirts with no jackets who scurried around it, the hustle and hullabaloo and fug of cigarette smoke that made the whole scene hazy. Most of all, she observed the total absence of female workers. And then one of the men noticed her.

He stood still and stared, mouth agape as though he had never seen a woman before. His sudden stillness caught the eye of the worker beside him, who also stopped moving to gawk. The raucous shouts began to die away and, before Harry could gather her wits enough to speak, every man was staring in a way that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.

‘Can we help you, miss?’ called one, stepping forward and removing his cap. ‘You ought not to be down here.’

Harry cleared her throat. ‘I’m looking for Mr Babbage. Is he available?’

Her accent, well-spoken and proper at the best of times, sounded shrill and horrendously misplaced above the thrum of the machinery. The spokesman frowned but turned to shout over one shoulder. ‘Mr Babbage, sir? There’s a – a lady what’s asking for you.’

The door of a side office opened and a stout, red-cheeked man came hurrying out. Harry was instantly reminded of a jolly garden gnome, the kind her aunt had gone crazy for the previous summer and dotted around the gardens of Abinger Hall until it felt as though they were being overrun by cheery little men. He stopped short, goggling at the sight of Harry, then seemed to pull himself together. Eyebrows bristling, he hurried forward. ‘I’m Albert Babbage. What can I do for you?’

His tone wasn’t blunt but nor was it especially cordial. Nevertheless, Harry met the enquiry without flinching. ‘I’m to report to you for work.’

Mr Babbage gawped at her, astonishment written all over his florid features. ‘For work? Here?’

Uncomfortably aware of their audience, she nodded and took the envelope from her handbag. ‘Perhaps this will explain things.’

For a moment, Mr Babbage merely stared at the white oblong, then he seemed to recall where he was. He glanced furiously at the men around him. ‘Dunno what you’re all looking at,’ he snapped with sudden but palpable irritation. ‘Haven’t you got work to do?’

As one, they busied themselves and Mr Babbage turned his attention back to Harry with a bemused expression. ‘You’d better step into my office,’ he said, indicating the door through which he’d just passed. It wasn’t until they were both seated, on opposite sides of a heavy oak desk, and he had given Harry another perplexed look, that Mr Babbage pulled out the letter and began to read. Harry took the opportunity to take in her surroundings – post room-themed pamphlets dotted the walls, some yellowed and torn with age, along with procedural posters and instructions. An open cabinet hung in one corner, revealing row after row of shining brass keys, each neatly tagged. A hefty set of weighing scales sat on a sideboard. Here, as in the main room and the corridor, Harry detected the oily bite of metal and machinery. Beneath it lay the ingrained odour of sweat and hard work, and perhaps a hint of tobacco.

With a surreptitious glance through the windows at the engine room beyond, Harry reminded herself that this was Simeon Pemberton’s attempt at revenge. She had to rise above it.

Mr Babbage looked up. ‘This won’t do, I’m afraid. It won’t do at all.’

Harry dragged her gaze from a fire safety poster and fixed her attention upon him, wondering what the letter suggested. ‘Are you not in need of secretarial support?’

‘Well, no,’ he huffed. ‘That is to say yes, there is a vacancy but it’s not… I didn’t expect—’ He broke off to eye her helplessly and took a deep breath. ‘We can’t have a lady of your… your credentials working down here, Miss White. Only an idiot would have suggested we could.’

She allowed herself a brief flicker of amusement. ‘I think we agree on that.’

‘There must be some mistake – a miscommunication,’ Mr Babbage went on, frowning to himself. ‘Because there is a job to be done but…’ He trailed off, fixing his gaze on the letter once more, then glanced up at Harry and sniffed. ‘Wait here. No, on second thoughts you’d better come with me.’

Harry didn’t quite heave a sigh of relief when they took the service lift to the first floor and returned to the quiet elegance of the corridors she knew well, but she felt the tension in her muscles ease. Mr Babbage led her past a number of closed doors before he found the one he wanted. Instructing her to wait, he disappeared inside, leaving her to study the unadorned wood panels with no inkling of who worked within. When he reappeared a few minutes later, a weight seemed to have lifted from his shoulders. ‘I’ve found you an office,’ he explained, heading back the way they had come. ‘I daresay it’s not what you’re used to up on the fifth floor, but it’ll be a darn sight better than anything we’ve got in the post room.’ He glanced sideways as though sizing her up. ‘Yes, a darn sight better.’

He must be wondering what her crime had been, Harry thought, feeling the faint fire of indignation warm her cheeks. Whatever Mr Pemberton’s letter said, she knew it wouldn’t be anything resembling the truth. ‘What is the position I shall be filling?’ she asked.

Mr Babbage huffed. ‘Didn’t Pemberton tell you? It’s a secretarial role, mostly filing and correspondence. Replying to letters, that kind of thing.’

She frowned, remembering the noise and chaos of the basement. ‘Then why send me to the post room?’

‘Why indeed?’ Mr Babbage grumbled. ‘Although strictly speaking, the correspondence doesn’t relate to the business of the bank so maybe that’s it. Stuff and nonsense if you ask me but it falls under my remit, right enough. I’ve just never known what to do about it and it’s getting out of hand.’

Harry felt her brow crease even further. Letters that weren’t Abbey Road Building Society business? Stuff and nonsense? What could that mean?

‘Ah, here we are,’ her companion said as they arrived at a shabby door set just before the bend of the corridor. It bore the number 221 but looked very much like a broom cupboard to Harry. Even so, Mr Babbage slotted a key into the lock and pushed the door aside to peer past. ‘Not what you’d call plush but you’ll be comfortable enough.’ He shook his head. ‘More comfortable than downstairs, at least.’

Moving back, he gestured to Harry to take a look. Beyond the light from the corridor, the room was shrouded in darkness. She felt for the switch just inside and flicked it upwards, filling the small space with weak yellow light from an overhead bulb, and she realised her first assessment had almost been right – it practically was a broom cupboard. There was a chair and a desk, with a typewriter taking up most of its surface. A narrow filing cabinet stood in one corner with a forlorn black telephone resting on top. There were no windows, no skylights, no view to the outside world. The walls were blank, with the occasional oblong smudge that suggested a picture might have once hung there. At least there was a carpet, Harry thought as she stepped inside and her heels sank into the crimson wool. She wouldn’t have been entirely surprised at bare floorboards.

‘Well,’ Mr Babbage said from the doorway, ‘I’ll leave you to settle in. One of the lads will be along shortly with the first batch of letters – all you need to do is type a short reply and then file the original with a copy of the response.’

Harry stared at him. ‘What kind of letter? How will I know what to say in my reply?’

Mr Babbage coughed. ‘All will become clear, Miss White. Ring down once you’ve opened a few and we can discuss a standard response.’ His eyes met hers then and she saw pity in his gaze. ‘I’m afraid it’s going to be very dull work. Dull but necessary, for all that it’s stuff and nonsense.’

Almost subconsciously, she stiffened her spine. ‘I’m sure I shall do my best.’

He gave a little shake of his head as he walked away. ‘Call down to my office when you’re ready. Goodbye for now.’

Harry gazed after him for several long seconds, then surveyed the room again. After a moment or two, she drifted towards the desk and ran her fingers across the keys of the typewriter. They were dust-free and the ribbon seemed to be new. She sat in the chair, listening to the silence. Nowhere in the bank could be considered noisy – apart from the recently discovered basement, Harry allowed – but on the fifth floor there had always been a discreet background buzz. The genteel murmur of conversation in offices and corridors, the clack-clack-clack of typewriter keys, the clip of well-heeled shoes on the polished wooden floor and the ring of the telephone. But in this apparently forgotten corner of the building, there was no sound. She might be the only person there.

The drawers of the filing cabinet were empty. Harry lifted the telephone, listened briefly to the dialling tone, then sighed and drummed her fingers on the metal of the cabinet. Her previous work at the bank could not be described as interesting – her brothers frequently asked her how she bore it – but she had always taken a quiet satisfaction in an immaculately typed, neatly filed document, enjoying the knowledge that while she was not stretching herself, she was good at the work. She liked earning her own money too; the granddaughter of a baron had no title to inherit and needed to make her own way in the world. Usually this was by marriage to a suitably wealthy husband but Harry had no intention of being forced to settle for such a match. So her job, though frowned upon by her family, was more than just employment – it was a declaration of independence. And that was why she was determined not to let this sudden change in role disturb her.

Things would work out, she decided, and carefully removed her hat. Seeing nowhere to hang it, and making a mental note to requisition a coat stand, she laid the hat in the empty filing cabinet and reached into her handbag to retrieve the Agatha Christie novel she had been enjoying on the train that morning. It wasn’t her habit to read on the bank’s time, but what else was there to do?

Almost an hour passed before Harry heard the squeak of a wheel in the corridor. It was followed by a knock at the door. She lowered the paperback. ‘Come in.’

Slowly, the door was pushed back and a youth peered in at her, dressed in the same familiar red and gold livery that the bank’s doormen wore. Harry didn’t recognise his amiable, freckled face but that was hardly surprising; as Mr Pemberton’s personal assistant, she hadn’t been responsible for handling the post. ‘Got a sack of mail here,’ the youth said, gesturing vaguely at the shiny brass trolley behind him. ‘Where do you want it?’

Harry almost laughed. The office was barely big enough for the furniture it contained – there weren’t many places for him to leave a sack. But she swallowed her amusement and pointed to the corner on his left. ‘Over there, please.’

She watched with undisguised curiosity as he hefted the hessian sack from the trolley and deposited it on the carpet. It was full, just as his grunt of effort suggested, and once again Harry found herself wondering at the nature of the letters contained inside. Stuff and nonsense, Mr Babbage had said, but the sheer volume confused her. Who were all these letters to, if not the bank? And who could they be from?

‘That’s the lot,’ the post boy said, scratching beneath his brocade-trimmed hat with the cheerful air of one who has completed his task. ‘For now, at any rate. But I reckon you’ll be a regular stop on my delivery route now, given how much people write to him.’

The words only increased Harry’s mystification but she managed a polite smile. ‘Then I suppose I’d better introduce myself. I’m Miss White.’

‘How d’you do? Most people call me Bobby,’ the youth replied. His eyes travelled around the room, taking in the single light bulb and lack of decoration in thoughtful silence before his gaze came to rest upon the novel splayed cover upwards on the desk. ‘Like them kind of books, do you? Detective stories and that?’

Harry nodded. ‘Yes, I do.’

Bobby looked pleased with himself, as though he’d solved a puzzle. ‘That must be why they give you this here job.’ He gave himself a little shake and stepped backwards into the corridor. ‘Cheerio, then. Prob’ly see you tomorrow.’

The squeak of the trolley receded, leaving Harry alone to stare at the bulging sack. None of this made sense – what could her taste in literature have to do with anything? But now at least she had something to do. Getting to her feet, she took the few steps needed to cross the room and tugged the rough brown material apart.

The sack was filled with a jumble of envelopes, all shapes and sizes, in assorted shades and decidedly mixed in quality. The handwriting was neat on some, an untidy scrawl on others, but the name and address on every letter was a variation on the same theme:

Mr Sherlock Holmes

221b Baker Street

London

Harry could only stare in open-mouthed astonishment. Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t a bag full of letters to – well, to someone who didn’t exist. And yet they weren’t incorrectly addressed, nor had they been misdelivered: the Abbey Road Building Society headquarters did occupy numbers 219–229 Baker Street, undeniably encompassing the fictional address of Sherlock Holmes. But surely people didn’t write to him there. Surely they understood their letters would go unread… Still blinking, Harry gathered up a handful of letters from the top of the slithering pile and took them back to her desk. She slit the first envelope open and began to read.

Mr Sherlock Holmes

221b Baker Street

London

NW1 6XE

43 Myddelton Road

Sandy

Bedfordshire

13th April 1932

Dear Mr Holmes,

I am writing to you for help with a most terrible crime. The police have been worse than useless and I am at my wits’ end. I believe my neighbour cruelly murdered his wife in the dead of night last month but no one will listen. I am certain that a man of your brilliance will see the truth of things immediately. Please grant me an appointment so that a killer may be apprehended and justice served.

I await your reply by return.

Yours faithfully,

Mr Benjamin Grantly

Harry blew out her cheeks, wondering whether Mr Grantly had abandoned hope of receiving a response, given it was six months since he’d written, or whether his neighbour was still under suspicion. Putting the letter to one side, she opened the next. This was from a Miss P Bellows, the distressed owner of a missing cat, who claimed she had been the victim of international pet thieves. Another writer accused a local vicar of embezzling church funds. Several claimed sightings of Holmes’ nemesis, Professor James Moriarty, in locations from Dover to Aberdeen. As Harry’s incredulous gaze skimmed each entreaty, she was sure of one thing: few of these purported crimes would have snared the interest of the great Sherlock Holmes.

Puffing out another breath, Harry stacked the sheets of paper neatly on top of each other. Now she understood why Mr Babbage had said the correspondence wasn’t really anything to do with the bank. The letters had evidently been allowed to pile up, a minor problem it was easier to ignore until the sheer volume meant the problem was no longer minor. Something had to be done to address it. Someone had to address it and, however improbably, it appeared that someone was Harry. It was certainly a long way from what she had expected to do when she’d arrived at work that morning.

Lifting the heavy black telephone onto the desk, she consulted the internal telephone directory she found in a drawer and located the post room extension. Mr Babbage answered on the fifth ring and grunted when Harry introduced herself. ‘I suppose you’ve got a better idea of the job now.’

‘I have,’ Harry said. ‘Although I must say, the correspondence is a little… unusual.’

There was a hollow laugh. ‘Downright foolish, if you ask me. It started arriving as soon as we opened the doors. We had a look at a few, thinking they were meant for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but we soon realised – well, to be blunt, that it was our problem, not his. A duty that comes with the Baker Street territory, so to speak.’

Harry eyed the spidery handwriting on the paper before her, and then gazed at the sack leaning against the office wall. These letters hadn’t been written in admiration of the author of the Sherlock Holmes stories but in appreciation of Mr Holmes himself. Every correspondent ardently believed not only that the great detective was a real, flesh-and-blood person, but also that he could and would solve their mysteries. They had each set pen to paper, some in frustration, others in desperation, all in hope and anticipation that Sherlock Holmes would heed their cry for help. Mr Babbage was right, a response was most definitely needed – one that was sympathetic but firm – and that was something Harry could hardly imagine would be forthcoming from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself, given that the great man had sadly been dead for several years.

‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ she said, as her future suddenly stretched away in front of her. ‘There are so many letters.’

Mr Babbage seemed to hesitate, then rallied. ‘You’ll soon get on top of things. Like I said earlier, all you need to do is whip up a short reply and pop it in the post, then file the copies and move on to the next one.’

‘What am I supposed to say?’ she asked, lifting the first letter from the pile and scanning the hopeful words. ‘And who should the reply be from – the bank?’

Again, Mr Babbage paused. ‘No, not the bank. From Sherlock Holmes – the secretary of Sherlock Holmes.’ He gave an uncertain chuckle. ‘That’s you.’

Not for the first time that morning, Harry wondered if she was still asleep and dreaming. ‘And what should the reply say? Given we’re going along with the pretence that he actually exists.’

There was a huff from the other end of the phone. ‘I don’t know. Tell them he’s dead – no, don’t tell them that, we could get into a lot of hot water, legally speaking.’ He stopped, as though thinking. ‘Say he’s not taking any new cases at the moment. Yes, that works.’

Harry considered what she knew of Sherlock Holmes’ character, having read and enjoyed the stories written about him, and then recalled the distressed tone in some of the letters. ‘I’m not sure that’s going to work,’ she objected. ‘Holmes is always declaring he isn’t taking new cases and then something juicy comes along and he’s off on the trail. They’ll just write again, more desperately.’

‘Then be firm,’ Mr Babbage said, starting to sound exasperated. ‘Tell them he’s retired and living in the countryside and doesn’t care about crime any more. Say he’s got a new hobby now like – like bell ringing or gardening or something.’

Once again, Harry pictured the familiar image of Sherlock Holmes, deerstalker hat on his head, and tried to imagine him cheerfully indulging in bucolic bell ringing. ‘I don’t think—’

‘You’ll come up with something, Miss White,’ Mr Babbage cut in jovially. ‘The sooner you get started, the better we’ll all feel, eh? Goodbye for now.’

Harry stared at the silent receiver, then replaced it on the cradle and moved the telephone back to its home on top of the filing cabinet. She sat still for a moment, wondering for what felt like the hundredth time how she had come to this, and then gave herself a brisk mental shake. Simeon Pemberton had sent her here, doubtless hoping she would refuse to lower herself to such ridiculousness, and she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of being proved right. Besides, there was a job to be done – not glamorous or flashy, but a job, nonetheless. These letters needed a response, a kind and soothing reply that let the writer down gently, and that was something Harry could provide with her customary calm efficiency.

Reaching a decision, she took the topmost letter to Sherlock Holmes from the pile she had opened and smoothed it out on the desk, skimming over the words to refresh her memory. A slight frown creased her forehead as she decided how to word the perfect response, then from the desk drawer she extracted a sheet of inky blue carbon paper and laid it between two sheets of plain letter paper. Rolling all three pages carefully into the typewriter, she lined up the carriage and, with a final decisive glance at the return address on the letter, she began to type.

2

Over the weeks that followed, it quickly became clear to Harry that she had vastly underestimated the mind-numbing monotony of her new role. At the end of the first day, she had risen from her desk at four o’clock sharp to don her hat and coat, pausing in the doorway to survey the neat stack of answered letters on the desk and choosing to block out the still-bulging mail sack in the corner. The number on the door as she closed it brought her up sharp – someone had a sense of humour, it seemed – but she had turned the key in the lock with fastidious care and made her way to the ground floor, where she’d smiled at Patrick the doorman, and taken the Underground from Baker Street to Piccadilly.

She’d had no doubt that the excellent London Library in St James’s Square would house the complete works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle among their labyrinth of shelves and stacks and she was not disappointed; the librarian offered her original copies of The Strand magazine in which many of the Sherlock Holmes stories had first appeared, as well as leather-bound copies of the five short story collections that had followed to feed the growing public appetite for the detective’s adventures. Arms aching a little with the weight of the compilations, Harry had returned to her small apartment in Mayfair, eaten a hurried supper of steak and kidney pudding, and spent the rest of the evening immersed in fiendish crime.

In the morning, she had returned to the office and retyped the letters she had produced the day before, because Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself had given her the perfect cover story – in His Last Bow, he had referred to Holmes having retired to the South Downs to keep bees. Clearly, Mr Babbage hadn’t been as far off the mark as Harry had supposed.

But once she settled into the task, the monotony began to tug at her spirits. The letters themselves were often diverting, if wild and sometimes laughable. Having renewed her acquaintance with Holmes through the books she’d borrowed from the library, she couldn’t help imagining his reaction to these demands for his services. Every now and then, she came across one that caught her eye and caused her to wonder whether it might have made a good Sherlock Holmes adventure or contemplate how the detective might have solved it. She never varied her response, however:

Thank you for your enquiry. Unfortunately, Mr Holmes is no longer available for consultation. He is retired from detective work and has for some years been living in Sussex, where he is a much-respected beekeeper.

I am sorry not to be able to help further but wish you every success with this distressing matter.

Yours faithfully,

R. K. Moss

Secretary to Sherlock Holmes

Initially, she had considered using her own name to sign the letters but she suspected the bank – or at least Mr Pemberton, if he ever came looking – might view that as a grave impertinence. Her next idea was to use one of Conan Doyle’s minor female characters as a nom de plume but that felt somehow both disrespectful and foolhardy – those who wrote to Sherlock Holmes were very likely ardent fans of the world the famous detective inhabited. They would register a name stolen from a story and probably write again to demand an explanation.

After some deliberation, Harry had settled upon the tried and trusted stalwart of many mystery novels – the anagram. The letters of Sherlock Holmes’ name had given her a number of possibilities that would not look out of place in one of his own stories: Heckler Shloom sounded like a wealthy American businessman being blackmailed by his mistress, Horses Hemlock put her in mind of a shady bookmaker with links to a nefarious gambling ring. The only name she could make with an ounce of believability was Rochelle K. Moss, which she abbreviated to R. K. Moss in order to muddy the waters further. But once that initial burst of creativity was over, the reality of typing the same words over and over, day in, day out came to weigh heavily on her spirits. It wasn’t as though she had colleagues to relieve the boredom – her daily visits from Bobby and his post trolley provided some brief respite from the solitude but for the most part, it was just Harry and the never-ending stream of letters.

As the weeks rolled by, she began to wonder whether her determination to stick things out was misplaced. And then, one Tuesday morning, she opened the envelope that changed everything.

It was the sender’s address that first caught Harry’s eye. The village of Foxley was around five miles from her family’s estate in Surrey and while its houses and shops didn’t lie within the Abinger lands, she knew several members of the household staff and groundskeepers came from there. It also boasted a very fine public house that Harry’s brothers spoke well of, and an excellent cricket team, all of which flashed through Harry’s mind when she saw the address. Who on earth in Foxley would be writing to Sherlock Holmes? And, more importantly, why?

Frowning, she scanned the neat handwriting and observed the letter was from a Miss E. Longstaff, of No. 5, The Cottages. Miss Longstaff was writing on behalf of her family on the delicate matter of her eighteen-year-old sister, Mildred, who had moved to London to work as a maid but had vanished in mysterious circumstances.

The police have been no help. A newspaper advertisement offering a modest reward only attracted the worst kind of swindlers and liars, none of whom could prove they had seen Mildred. I beg you in the strongest terms, Mr Holmes, to use your formidable skills to find her. She is a gentle country girl, hardworking and diligent and most proper in her conduct. With each passing day my fears grow that something dreadful has happened. Please help us, sir. I do not know where else to turn.

Harry’s frown deepened as she studied the letter. It was well written in a looping cursive script, with flawless spelling and an excellent grasp of language and grammar: whoever Miss E. Longstaff was, she appeared to have enjoyed an education that went above and beyond that offered by the average village school. What was more, if everything she claimed was true, she was in pressing need of help. Why, then, had she chosen to consult a man who did not exist? It made no sense to Harry, who enjoyed a crime novel as much as the next person but had never been fooled into thinking the detectives she admired were real. And yet Miss Longstaff was not alone. The letters Harry spent her days answering were testament to that.

The paper and envelope offered few additional clues about the sender, being inexpensive but perfectly adequate. The date beneath the address was over a month old and when Harry examined the envelope, she saw the postmark was the same day, which suggested urgency on Miss Longstaff’s part. No big surprise after her revelation that the family was afraid for the missing girl. And yet quite some time had passed – perhaps this Mildred had turned up safe and well in the meantime. Almost certainly she had, Harry told herself as she rolled fresh paper into her typewriter – wasn’t her aunt constantly bemoaning the flightiness of housemaids?

Her fingers flexed as she prepared to type the standard reply. She laid them on the keys, poised to let them fly, and stopped to gaze pensively down at the looping handwriting. There was really no way of knowing whether Miss Longstaff’s sister had been found, short of asking and that was impossible. But it was a possibility that Miss Longstaff had written again, in greater desperation, and that subsequent letter might be waiting in the pile of envelopes Harry had long since sorted into date order, ready to work methodically through. Pushing her chair back, Harry got to her feet and selected the two oldest, elastic-bound bundles and carried them to the desk. She flicked slowly through, comparing the handwriting and postmark on each envelope with that of Miss Longstaff’s letter, but none matched either in penmanship or the postal district neatly stamped above the Baker Street address.

Undeterred, Harry moved on to the next bundle, and the next. By the time she reached the final cluster, all of which bore a postmark dated in the last week, she grew more and more assured that her original supposition must be correct – Miss Longstaff and her sister had been reunited. Until she recognised a familiar hand on a fresh, unopened envelope. It didn’t have to be a further entreaty, Harry told herself as she reached for the letter opener. It could be that Mildred had been found and the conscientious Miss Longstaff was simply informing Mr Holmes that his services were no longer needed.

But deep down, Harry thought it unlikely; if the girl had turned up Miss Longstaff would most likely have forgotten she had ever written to Sherlock Holmes. And her suspicions were instantly borne out. The letter begged for help – the family’s concern ate away at them all. They were not wealthy but they would endeavour to pay anything Mr Holmes asked to have word of Mildred. Desperation poured from the page, tugging at Harry’s heartstrings even as she understood there was nothing she could do to help. Sherlock Holmes could not and would not be moved to investigate, because he did not exist. With an uncharacteristic groan of frustration, Harry settled once more with her hands on the typewriter keys and began to type.

She got little rest that night. Her dreams were punctuated by glimpses of a phantom girl, who led her on a chase through London’s landmarks, always tantalisingly close but somehow also just out of reach. When Harry jerked awake sometime around dawn, she gave up trying to sleep again and lay staring at the ceiling as pale tendrils of yellow crawled across the alabaster. In her dreams, it had not been Sherlock Holmes who had been searching for Mildred Longstaff, it had been Harry herself, an idea so preposterous that Harry might have laughed if she hadn’t been so unsettled. Yet that was what her fevered brain seemed to be demanding, regardless of the ridiculousness of the undertaking, and the after-effects of the dreams were hard to shake off.

Eventually, Harry got up and made her way across the still-slumbering city to Baker Street, arriving early to immerse herself in the dullness of her work. But that only seemed to make things worse – she could not stop thinking of Miss Longstaff and her parents, silently watching the door each day for news from their last great hope. At length, Harry found the standard letter she had typed to Miss Longstaff the day before and sat looking at it for a long time. Perhaps she might call – but no, it was madness to even think of it. The family wanted the brilliance of the world’s greatest detective, not meaningless platitudes from a member of the local aristocracy. What good could she do? Unless…

The idea was so audacious, so utterly against the trust placed in her by the bank, that Harry felt light-headed even thinking it. Yet it persisted in her head, growing in noise until she had to give it proper space. It was an incontrovertible truth that Sherlock Holmes could not uncover the whereabouts of Mildred Longstaff but that did not mean there was nothing to be done. What if Harry sought information about the missing girl and reported back to the Longstaffs under the guise of Holmes?

She gave herself a mental shake. That would never work – she was not even a man, let alone anyone’s idea of a master detective. But Mr Babbage had dubbed her secretary to Sherlock Holmes. What was to stop her taking a little liberty with the title and replying to Miss Longstaff in that capacity? She could request more information, do some digging in her spare time and see what she could find out. No one at the bank needed to know. It wasn’t as though anyone was checking up on her, after all – apart from Bobby and Mr Babbage, no one seemed to remember she was there.

Rolling another sheaf of papers into the typewriter, Harry sat without moving for several minutes. The difficulty was that time was now pressing. Mildred had been missing for almost two months already, and correspondence between the Longstaff family and Holmes to gather further details might take weeks. Harry was due to return home to Abinger Hall that weekend – what if she took a trip to Foxley village and presented herself to Miss Longstaff as Sherlock Holmes’ assistant? She could ask questions of the family, perhaps even request a photograph of Mildred… it would be a much more efficient approach than writing and awaiting a reply. And she could do it all under the guise of R. K. Moss – no one need know her true identity. Making up her mind, Harry began to type.

Wednesday 5th October, 1932

Dear Miss Longstaff,

Thank you for your recent letters to Mr Holmes regarding your sister, Mildred. Unfortunately, Mr Holmes is no longer available for consultation. He is retired from detective work and has for some years been living in Sussex, where he is a much-respected beekeeper.

He has, however, asked me to investigate on his behalf and share any findings with him, in order to try to locate your sister. Accordingly, I shall visit you at 2 p.m. on Saturday 8th October, at your home.

Mr Holmes is keen to render his assistance and has asked me to assure you there will be no fee. I look forward to meeting you.

Yours faithfully,

R. K. Moss

Secretary to Sherlock Holmes

Harry reread the letter several times once it was complete, anxiously considering its tone. She had tried to use the trademark arrogance of Holmes to overcome the lack of social grace in demanding an interview at such short notice – there wasn’t time to allow Miss Longstaff to write back. Would Holmes’ reputation for brusqueness, combined with the family’s undoubted gratitude at receiving his attention, be enough to get Harry past the front door? Time would tell, she supposed. The lack of a fee would help – in the first instance, she had no idea how much assistance she could truly offer and in the second, she had a sneaking suspicion that taking any kind of payment on behalf of a fictional character might amount to fraud. Better to avoid that altogether, she felt. But it still took her until lunchtime to pluck up the courage to add the envelope to the pile of others that would soon be collected by Bobby to be processed in the post room. And it took all her strength not to run after him once he had taken it, whistling cheerfully as he trundled along the corridor.

She stared at the closed door of the office for a long time, wondering whether she’d made a terrible mistake. Eventually, she filed her copy of the standard letter with all the other standard replies she’d sent so far, hid the letter from R. K. Moss inside a folder at the bottom of the filing cabinet, and opened the next envelope.

3

It was a perfectly crisp autumn day when Harry navigated the lanes from her family home to the village of Foxley. The roads were strewn with coppery leaves that had flung themselves from the branches and the sky was a deep cornflower blue. Another time, Harry might have savoured the luxury of her brother’s cherry red MG, which he’d grudgingly allowed her to borrow without too much interrogation; driving was one of her great pleasures, inspired by the motoring adventures of Baroness Campbell von Laurentz, who had written a book on the subject and had been a frequent visitor to Abinger Hall during Harry’s formative years. But right now she found the enormity of what she was about to do dampened her spirits. What if the Longstaffs saw through her ridiculous assertion that she was working for Sherlock Holmes and called the police? Or worse, what if they laughed in her face?

Nevertheless, she found a parking spot on the edge of the village, tucked her golden curls under her hat and straightened the no-nonsense skirt suit she’d chosen for its dullness. With a bit of luck, she looked the part. All she needed now was to convince Miss Longstaff and her parents that she was R. K. Moss, secretary to the greatest ever detective. The thought made her feel exhilarated and ill at the same time.

The door was opened almost before Harry’s knock had died away. A young woman of around seventeen stood there, pale but composed in a neat, emerald-green dress that matched the colour of her eyes yet contrasted beautifully with her striking auburn hair. ‘Yes?’

Harry considered her. From the style and tone of the correspondence, she had assumed Esme Longstaff was older than Mildred, perhaps in her twenties. ‘Miss Longstaff? Miss Esme Longstaff?’

The girl frowned. ‘Yes, I’m Esme Longstaff.’

Harry cleared her throat. ‘I’m R. K. Moss. I assume you got my letter?’

‘Oh,’ Miss Longstaff said, her cheeks reddening a little. ‘But I thought…’

She trailed off and Harry understood the cause of her uncertainty. It seemed they were both guilty of making assumptions about the other. ‘You were expecting a man, perhaps?’

Miss Longstaff’s blush deepened. ‘No! That’s to say, we wondered but—’ She seemed to pull herself together and stood back to allow Harry to enter. ‘It doesn’t matter. Thank you for taking the time to see us. Won’t you come in?’

Harry did as she asked. The hallway was narrow, with a low ceiling and whitewashed walls. She wiped her feet and declined an offer to leave her hat and jacket, then followed Miss Longstaff into a small parlour crowded with a pair of faded chintz sofas, several occasional tables and a dark wood dresser against one wall. A fire smouldered in the small fireplace.

‘My parents,’ Esme said as Harry edged her way into the room. ‘Mama and Papa, this is Mr Holmes’ assistant.’

The couple exchanged looks. Anticipating further frowns, Harry strode towards them. ‘R. K. Moss,’ she said again, interjecting as much authority as she could muster into her voice. ‘A pleasure to meet you. Mr Holmes sends his regrets – he’s not as young as he was and doesn’t travel these days. His arthritis, you understand.’

The detail seemed to mollify them. ‘Of course,’ Mr Longstaff said from his position beside the fireplace, and shook Harry’s outstretched hand. ‘We’re grateful you could come.’

Esme shook her head. ‘You must have had a long journey. Can I offer you some tea?’

Somewhat guiltily, Harry recollected her uneventful fifteen-minute drive. But there was no way she could refuse the offer without appearing rude so she smiled. ‘That would be most welcome.’

Once Esme had left the room, Harry turned to her parents, who were older, less vibrant versions of their daughter. Mr Longstaff’s hair was grey, his face lined, but his eyes were the same vivid green as Esme’s. Harry could easily imagine Mrs Longstaff turning heads in her younger years but she now gave the impression of a once-bright painting that had faded with the passing years. ‘Mr Holmes was most distressed to hear of your situation,’ Harry said, surreptitiously crossing her fingers. ‘Perhaps you could give me some background information while we await tea. How long is it exactly since you heard from Mildred?’

Mr Longstaff pressed his lips together. ‘About three months now. She went to London for work, took a job as a maid at a fancy house in a well-to-do area. At first, everything was fine – she wrote twice a week, sent money when she could.’ He fixed Harry with an almost fiery look. ‘We didn’t ask her to – told her not to but she sent it anyway. Said she wanted to help with Esme’s studies.’

It had been clear from the letters that Esme Longstaff was well educated. Perhaps there was a private tutor involved, Harry thought. ‘I understand,’ she said, perching on the edge of a sofa and reaching into her handbag for a notepad and pen. ‘What happened next?’

‘We don’t know.’ Mrs Longstaff regarded her from her seat on the opposite sofa, her eyes already damp with tears. ‘Mildred suddenly stopped writing and our letters to her were returned. When Mr Longstaff went to the address, we were told she’d been let go. For stealing!’

Her voice rose sharply on the final word and she pressed her hand to her mouth as though to prevent a sob from escaping. At the fireplace, Mr Longstaff made a restless gesture. ‘It wasn’t true – it couldn’t be. I told the housekeeper, Mildred has her head screwed on – she’d never take anything that wasn’t hers. But she wouldn’t listen.’

‘What did they say had been stolen?’ Harry asked.

‘Some jewellery – a necklace or something,’ he said dismissively. ‘But it couldn’t have been Mildred. She’s not a thief. The job was worth more to her than a bit of jewellery.’

Harry nodded. He sounded stout in his belief, although it wouldn’t be the first time a parent had defended their offspring against the evidence. ‘Of course not,’ she said soothingly. ‘Did they involve the police at all?’

Mrs Longstaff closed her eyes. ‘It would have been better if they had – at least we’d have someone else who would have seen her before she disappeared. But they just sent her packing, didn’t want any trouble. I don’t know why she didn’t come home.’

It was a shame she hadn’t, Harry thought, but there might be any number of explanations for that – pride, embarrassment, a determination to make her own way in the city. Stranger still that the police had not been summoned, which suggested to Harry that the stolen item hadn’t been especially valuable, or that it had been recovered and Mildred’s employer had preferred to avoid any fuss. Either explanation was possible.

Her musings were interrupted by Esme, returning with a tray of tea. She laid it on one of the tables and turned an enquiring look Harry’s way. ‘Milk, no sugar, thank you,’ Harry said, then returned her attention to Mr and Mrs Longstaff. ‘And you’ve heard nothing more from Mildred?’

‘Nothing,’ Mrs Longstaff murmured. ‘We tried to find her – Mr Longstaff scoured half the city and we even put an advert in the newspaper, appealing for information, but nothing useful came to light. It’s as though she vanished.’

Harry thought of the London she knew, vast and sprawling and growing month by month. Behind the gloss of the bright lights lay a warren of dark alleyways. It would be easy for a scared country girl to take a wrong turn and find herself somewhere undesirable. The question then would be how lost she might become.

Esme handed Harry a cup and saucer. ‘I wrote to her employer, begging for more information, but it was hopeless.’ Her lip curled. ‘The domestic staff are beneath their notice, unless their tea arrives cold or the fire isn’t lit.’

Realising she could not hold her cup and make notes, Harry slid the saucer discreetly onto a nearby table and held her pen over the notepad. ‘Her employer, yes. Who was that?’

‘Lord and Lady Finchem,’ Esme said. ‘They live in Mayfair. I can give you the address if you’d like it.’

‘Yes, please,’ Harry replied, keeping her face composed even though her mind was racing. She was sure her mother had mentioned a Lady Finchem in the past – it had to be the same one. ‘Do you have a photograph of Mildred? It might help me to find her.’

Esme finished pouring the tea for her parents and rose. ‘Of course. Although you’ll probably recognise her by her hair – it’s red, like mine.’

She handed over a grainy black and white photograph that showed two girls, perhaps in their early teens, both of whom bore a striking resemblance to Mrs Longstaff. One was taller – Harry guessed that must be Mildred – but there wasn’t much difference otherwise. They were in a garden, their heads tilted towards each other, and smiling as though sharing a secret joke. It was a lovely picture, and reinforced the sisters’ bond, but it was too old and indistinct to give Harry much more than a general idea of Mildred’s appearance. ‘Thank you,’ she said, handing the photograph back. ‘Are her eyes green too?’

‘A family trait,’ Mr Longstaff put in. ‘My grandfather used to say we had a chip of the Emerald Isle in our hearts that lit up our eyes.’

Irish ancestry, Harry noted to herself in case it had any future relevance. ‘Did Mildred ever mention any friends in London?’ she asked. ‘Anyone she might have gone to?’

Esme shook her head. ‘She hadn’t been there long. There wasn’t anyone she spoke about in her letters, just the girls she worked with and we couldn’t speak to any of them. The housekeeper wouldn’t let us.’

Harry frowned. ‘But you went to the police – afterwards, I mean. Didn’t they make enquiries?’

At this, Esme’s eyes flashed. ‘Fat lot of use they were – took our names and nodded and said they’d look into it, but they never had any news when Papa rang them. Just said enquires were ongoing. That’s why we put the advert in the newspaper.’

‘Yes, I was going to ask about that,’ Harry said, glancing at her notepad. ‘Did you have many responses?’

‘None that brought us nearer to finding Mildred,’ Mr Longstaff growled in disgust. ‘Plenty of swindlers, taking advantage of our terrible situation and more than half of them were women. I suppose we should have expected it, but we hoped someone might have seen her.’

‘And none of them had?’ Harry asked.

Mr Longstaff uttered a derisive snort. ‘All of them claimed they had but if everyone who came forward had seen Mildred in Mayfair that day, there wouldn’t have been room to swing a cat.’

Harry frowned. ‘How did you establish they weren’t telling the truth?’

Esme Longstaff leaned forward. ‘The advert referred to a young woman in distress and gave the date Mildred left Lady Finchem’s employment,’ she said. ‘It asked for information about her movements in the Mayfair area, but I kept something back. I deliberately did not include the colour of Mildred’s hair in the description. If the respondents could not tell us that detail, we knew they were lying.’

Harry eyed the girl with renewed respect. Her shrewdness and self-assurance belied her tender years. ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘And none of them happened upon Mildred’s hair colour by chance?’

‘None,’ Mr Longstaff said flatly but Harry felt a subtle shift in the room, an intangible sense that something was being left unsaid.

‘Papa—’ Esme began but her father cut her off.

‘None, I tell you,’ he said, his expression darkening. ‘As Miss Moss here suggests, there were bound to be one or two who guessed correctly. It doesn’t mean they had seen Mildred.’

Mrs Longstaff pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘I refuse to believe it was her.’

Harry looked between the three of them, taking in Mr Longstaff’s forbidding glower, Mrs Longstaff’s distress and their daughter’s obvious discomfort. What was it they did not want to reveal? ‘Mr Holmes often finds the least consequential detail to be the most vital clue,’ she said quietly. ‘Perhaps you should allow him to be the judge.’

It wasn’t actually a lie – Sherlock Holmes did solve his cases by observing something that seemed trivial to everyone else – and it got the desired result. Mr Longstaff scowled for a few seconds longer, then waved a despairing hand at Esme. ‘Tell her, then. Not that it will help, since it was not our girl.’

‘We received a letter from one of the park keepers in Hyde Park,’ Esme said. ‘A Mr Blunt, of Serpentine Lodge. He claimed to have seen a young woman in the park, around the time Mildred would have been leaving Lady Finchem’s. He described her well and said she was clearly upset.’ She paused, her eyes grave. ‘And she was not alone.’

That changed things, Harry thought. A park keeper was a more credible witness than a member of the public. ‘I see. May I ask who she was with?’

‘An older man, supposedly,’ Esme replied. ‘They were arguing, which was what caught Mr Blunt’s attention in the first place. The man had taken hold of the young woman’s arm, and she was trying to pull away.’

Alarm bells began to ring in Harry’s head. ‘Go on.’

‘Of course, Mr Blunt continued to investigate,’ Esme said, her gaze downcast. ‘But as he got nearer, the girl pulled herself clear. She took off through the park and disappeared.’

‘Did Mr Blunt discover what the argument had been about?’ Harry enquired, making notes.

‘Yes—’

‘Mildred is not a thief,’ Mr Longstaff broke in. ‘The park keeper was mistaken. It couldn’t have been her.’

Harry turned her eyes to Esme once more, who sighed. ‘Mr Blunt said the man accused her of picking his pocket. He caught her red-handed and was about to march her to the Royal Parks police when she got away.’

Mr Longstaff shook his head. ‘That’s how we know it wasn’t Mildred. She wouldn’t have the first idea how to pick a pocket.’

It was on the tip of Harry’s tongue to say that the girl in Hyde Park had not known how to pick a pocket either, given that she had been caught, but she judged it best to keep the observation to herself. Esme cleared her throat. ‘I agree that it cannot have been my sister, but I can give you Mr Blunt’s letter, if you think it will help.’

‘Thank you,’ Harry said, and the girl got up to rummage in a dresser. She handed an envelope to Harry, who tucked it into her notebook to read later. It was important she kept an open mind, she reminded herself. Mildred’s family evidently could not bring themselves to think the worst of her, but as Sherlock Holmes was fond of saying, when the impossible had been eliminated, whatever remained, however improbable, must be the truth. And it was certainly possible that the Longstaffs’ love for Mildred had blinded them to her descent into crime…

‘I must say again how grateful we are that you came,’ Esme said as she took her seat on the settee once more. ‘It seems nobody cares about finding Mildred. Nobody except you and Mr Holmes.’

Shaking away her dark thoughts, Harry glanced at Esme Longstaff, so capable beyond her years, and then at her parents, paralysed by sorrow and despair, and shook off the last vestiges of guilt at deceiving them. She would find out what she could, and present her findings no matter what they revealed. ‘Please give me the address in Mayfair,’ she said, pen poised purposefully over her notes. ‘I’ll start there.’

4

The grandeur of Abinger Hall always took Harry’s breath away. Viewed from the ornate, wrought-iron entrance gates, attended on either side by rearing stone stags, the house was initially dwarfed by the twin rows of silver beech trees that stood sentry along the long avenue. It drew the eye, even in the distance, but Harry supposed that was the whole point of the avenue – to encourage visitors to contemplate the magnificence of the building as it loomed to full size before them. With three storeys of sandstone splendour, punctuated by rows of windows and dotted with decorative carved crests and swags, it announced that this was the home of a family with wealth and status. To Harry, it was where all her worries usually fell away.

After parking the MG beside the winged stone steps that swept upwards to the double doors, she gave the bonnet an affectionate pat and then removed her driving gloves. Driving was a pleasure she missed, living in London, but she had little need of a car in the city. Between the Underground, regular buses and the ubiquitous London cabs, Harry found she could easily get wherever she needed to go. But outside of London, a car meant freedom, which was why she had nagged her parents into letting her learn to drive in the first place. Perhaps one day she would follow in the tyre marks of Baroness Campbell von Laurentz and drive across Europe with nothing but a map and the spirit of adventure to guide her. She’d need her own car for that.

‘Good Lord, you actually brought her back in one piece.’ Her brother, Sebastian, was making his way down the left-hand staircase, an expression of mock surprise on his face.

‘You knew I would,’ Harry replied, holding out the key. ‘I’m a better driver than you, Seb. That’s why you let me borrow her.’

He cast an eye over the gleaming red bodywork and silver trim. ‘Can’t argue with that. Don’t tell Rufus, though. He’s asked to take her out for a spin a few times and I’ve fobbed him off with tales of an unreliable fuel line.’

Harry smiled. At twenty-two, their youngest brother had yet to develop a sense of responsibility, relying instead on impish charm and a smile that was hard to resist. His siblings had long ago learned not to lend him anything they wanted to see again. ‘Sensible,’ she told Sebastian. ‘I’m doubly honoured you didn’t try that on me.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he replied mildly. ‘You’d demand a mechanic’s report and then I’d be caught out in a terrible fib. Much less trouble to let you have your way. Did you have a successful jaunt?’

Harry thought back to the pale, anxious faces of the Longstaffs as she had taken her leave. ‘I think so, yes. Listen, you wouldn’t happen to know where Mama is, would you?’

‘In the drawing room, I think. But ask Chesterton when you get inside – he always knows where everyone is.’

Chesterton had been the family butler for as long as Harry could remember and he did have an uncanny awareness of everything that occurred within his domain.

‘Excellent,’ Harry said, and started towards the stone staircase. ‘Thanks again, Seb. You’re a good sport.’

On the drive back from the village, Harry had decided an indirect approach would work best with Lady Finchem. If she arrived on her Mayfair doorstep as R. K. Moss, demanding information about a disgraced maid, she would not get very far and ran the risk of drawing attention to both herself and her investigation. But if she called on behalf of her grandmother, Baroness Abinger, the door was certain to be opened and an audience granted with Lady Finchem herself. Before that, however, Harry needed more background and there was no one better to consult than her own mother. Evelyn White’s knowledge of London society was encyclopaedic; even a whisper of scandal would not have escaped her gimlet gaze.

The entrance hall was empty when Harry pushed back the door, its spotless tiled floor gleaming in the sunlight. The air was rich with the scent of furniture polish and roses, a particular mix that always told Harry she was home. A grand staircase embraced the wood-panelled walls, curving upwards to split left and right, its red carpet adding a vibrant splash of colour, and a magnificent chandelier hung from the beamed ceiling. Once upon a time Harry supposed it must have been lit with candles – she could only imagine what a pain it had been to tend. Craning her head back, she allowed herself to be distracted by the sunbeams dancing on the crystals. And then a door opened and the butler materialised.

‘Hello, Chesterton, I was just about to call for you,’ Harry said.

‘Indeed, Miss White,’ he replied with his usual impeccable politeness. ‘How may I help?’

‘I’m looking for my mother. Have you seen her?’

Chesterton nodded. ‘I believe she is in the library. Shall I have some tea sent up?’

‘Maybe later,’ Harry said, reaching up to unpin her hat. ‘Thanks, though.’

She found her mother exactly where Chesterton had suggested she would, curled up on a sofa with one of the family’s two Labradors at her side. Tiggy’s tail thumped lazily when Harry approached but she didn’t get up and Harry could hardly blame her; a spot by the fire was not to be relinquished lightly. Winston did get up and bounded over to greet her, ever hopeful that there might be a treat in his immediate future. Harry ruffled his golden ears and surreptitiously fed him one of the biscuits she always kept handy when she was at home. Both Tiggy and Winston were supposed to be working dogs but neither had displayed the least inclination to retrieve anything other than a ball, and they were now beloved pets.

‘You’ll make him fat,’ Evelyn said, as Tiggy raised her glossy black head to fix Harry with a reproachful look.

‘He walks too much for that,’ Harry replied, crossing to offer the second biscuit to Tiggy. ‘They both do.’

The library was one of Harry’s favourite rooms. Lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that carried an answer to almost any question, and a thousand stories besides, it usually had a roaring fire in the grate and somehow seemed to retain its warmth even on the coldest winter day. It was no hardship to sink onto the settee opposite her mother and absorb the peace of the room. No hardship, that was, until Evelyn raised her blue-eyed gaze from the book she had been reading and fixed Harry with a penetrative stare. ‘The Honeywells said they invited you to dinner last week but you declined on the grounds of ill health. Is anything the matter?’

Harry picked at a loose thread on the arm of the settee. ‘There’s nothing the matter with me but Julian Honeywell is an insufferable bore and his wife drinks too much.’

Her mother tutted. ‘Most of the people I know fall into one of those categories.’ She paused. ‘Many of them fall into both. But I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that the Honeywells have a sizeable estate in Hampshire, as well as a son just a few years older than you.’

Subtlety had never been her mother’s strong point but this was flagrant even for her. ‘Good for them,’ Harry said evenly. ‘I’m still not going to dinner with them, much less marrying poor Philip, so you can stop scheming. Apart from anything else, you know very well that I’d have to give up work if I ever got married.’

‘Would that be so terrible, darling?’ Evelyn’s eyes were wide. ‘I know you modern girls value your independence and I really do applaud you for sticking it out so long, but surely the novelty is wearing off now. Aren’t you just a tiny bit bored?’

Harry’s thoughts flew instantly to the multitude of unanswered letters, to the standard reply she typed out over and over each day. The correspondents themselves weren’t boring – she was often amused, shocked and horrified by their scandalous accusations and desperate entreaties – but she had to concede the work itself was not diverting. If it hadn’t been for her steely determination not to allow Mr Pemberton to get the better of her, she might have resigned weeks ago. And yet if she had, she wouldn’t have discovered the letter from Esme Longstaff, which was proving to be anything but boring. She shook her head. ‘No.’

Evelyn studied her steadfast expression for a moment, then sighed. ‘I can see there’s still no reasoning with you. But there’s no need to cut your nose off – why not accept the odd evening invitation? I’m sure Lawrence or Sebastian would be happy to accompany you when they’re in town.’

Harry almost laughed. She could imagine how thrilled her elder brothers would be at the thought of being dragged to dinner with the insufferable Honeywells. Their evening plans were more likely to involve one of the new nightclubs that seemed to be springing up everywhere, and Harry would rather not know what went on there. It was time to change the subject, she decided. ‘Speaking of invitations, do you know much about the Finchems?’

The conversational leap was clumsy enough to make Harry wince but her mother didn’t seem to notice. ‘Henry Finchem drinks too much and his wife is an insufferable bore. But they’re very well connected – Henry is in the House of Lords and has a house on Farm Street, as well as an estate in Wiltshire and something in Scotland.’ She tapped her book thoughtfully. ‘Old money. Two grown-up sons, as I recall.’

Was that why the housekeeper hadn’t called the police? Harry pondered as she filed the new information away. Perhaps Lord Finchem’s role in Westminster made him wary of the inevitable publicity that would arise from a police investigation. ‘Are Lord and Lady Finchem in London currently?’

‘I imagine so. Parliament has been awash with debate about the hunger marches, if the newspapers are to be believed, and Lady Finchem revels in feeling important. She’ll be in London all right.’ Evelyn raised a curious brow. ‘Why do you ask?’

Harry smoothed her skirt. ‘They came up in conversation,’ she said carelessly. ‘I forget where but I thought I might see if Lady Finchem wanted to contribute to Grandmother’s charity efforts.’

‘Probably,’ Evelyn said, shrugging. ‘Although I can’t see why you’d start with the Finchems. There are plenty of society ladies who would fall over themselves for an excuse to drop the Abinger name into polite conversation. Eugenia Honeywell, for example.’

Her mother’s determination to pair her off with the first man she deemed eligible made Harry want to grind her teeth. But perhaps it was something she could use. ‘Two sons, did you say?’

She watched her mother through her lashes, waiting to see if the bait would be taken, and was gratified to see the line twitch. ‘Then again, why not set your sights high?’ Evelyn said. ‘I’m sure Lady Finchem would be happy to help. Let me see now, tea at the Ritz is always a good idea.’

It undoubtedly was, Harry thought, but it wouldn’t allow her to visit the scene of the crime. ‘I’d be happy to call on her in Mayfair,’ she said. ‘You can tell so much about a family from their home, don’t you think? The family as a whole.’

Once again, the inference was not missed. Evelyn’s eyes gleamed with a faraway look, causing Harry to wonder whether she was imagining a romantic first encounter with the Finchem heir in the hallway. ‘I’ll write to Phyllida immediately,’ she said, and paused. ‘Shall I join you? Good first impressions are so important, after all.’

‘No!’ Harry hoped she didn’t sound as alarmed as she felt – she could hardly draw the conversation round to Mildred with her mother breathing down her neck. ‘I mean, of course they are but I think I can manage to take tea without embarrassing myself or the Abinger name.’

For a moment, Evelyn looked doubtful, then she smiled. ‘Of course you can, darling. Do wear something smart, however – perhaps the blue hat with the peacock feather? It brings out your eyes so beautifully.’

Giving herself an inner pat on the back for clearing a tricky obstacle, Harry nodded. ‘Yes, Mama,’ she said meekly and turned her attention to Winston, who was snuffling insistently at her hand in search of further treats. Now all she had to do was winkle the details of Mildred’s disappearance from Phyllida Finchem without arousing suspicion, while dodging her two sons. How hard could that be?

The Finchem residence on Farm Street was a white-fronted, four-storey Georgian town house with a grey slate roof and black iron railings separating it from the street. Harry made her way there straight from work on Friday afternoon, and if anyone at the bank had noticed her slightly fancier outfit, they had not mentioned it. Then again, she’d encountered no one but the doormen – Bobby and his brass trolley had been conspicuous by their absence – and they had simply tipped their hats in the same way they always did. Checking the address once more, Harry rang the bell just before four-thirty.

Her mother had been as good as her word and had written asking when Harry might call. Lady Finchem had responded with pleasing alacrity, and so Harry found herself enjoying the dubious thrill of undertaking her first foray into detective work. When the glossy front door opened, it revealed a sombre butler in an immaculate black tailcoat. Harry was not surprised by his formal attire and imperious manner; from what her mother had said, Phyllida Finchem set great store by appearances.

‘Lady Finchem is expecting you,’ the butler said when Harry gave her name. He took her hat and coat with a slight bow. ‘This way, please.’

The marbled hallway was larger than Harry had expected and dominated by an Axminster-carpeted staircase that rose majestically to the upper floors. The butler led her beneath a showy gilt chandelier towards a door on the left and ushered her into a drawing room. ‘Miss Harriet White,’ he intoned.

A tall, grey-haired lady rose from the Queen Anne armchair she occupied. ‘Miss White, such a pleasure to meet you,’ she said, advancing towards Harry. ‘We’ll take tea in here, Dobbins. Thank you.’

Bowing, the man backed out of the room. Lady Finchem waved at the sister of the chair she’d been occupying. ‘Won’t you take a seat?’

Harry did as she suggested, taking the opportunity to study the room. If she hadn’t already known from her mother and the sought-after address that the Finchems were wealthy, the contents of this room alone would have confirmed it. From the elegant furnishings to the gold-flocked wallpaper and antique vases that adorned the broad mantelpiece over the large fireplace, everything about it screamed money. The pearls Lady Finchem wore around her neck were worth a small fortune and Harry felt a flicker of disquiet; if the jewellery Mildred was alleged to have stolen was of similar quality then it was no surprise she had been dismissed.

Pieces of the puzzle were starting to drop into place and Harry didn’t like the picture they were creating. With no good character references from her previous employer, it was highly unlikely Mildred would be able to obtain another maid’s position and certainly nothing with a family like this. But the details of that were what Harry was here to uncover. ‘Thank you for the invitation, Lady Finchem,’ she said, perching on the chair opposite the older woman with a bright smile. ‘I do so appreciate you taking the time.’

‘Not at all. We must all do what we can to help those less fortunate than ourselves. I am always happy to assist Baroness Abinger with her charitable efforts. Such a formidable woman.’

‘Quite,’ Harry said. She adopted an earnest expression. ‘But as you say, we must do what we can, especially when there is so much unemployment. My grandmother is most especially anxious to aid women and children, those who find themselves in poverty through no fault of their own.’

Lady Finchem inclined her head. ‘A worthy cause. The men may help themselves but we women must band together.’

Her voice rang with compassion but the words themselves sounded hollow. Harry couldn’t imagine Lady Finchem visiting a poverty-stricken village with food and clothing the way her grandmother did. ‘We must,’ she said. ‘Why, only last week there was a sad case of a young woman who—’

She was interrupted by the sound of a throat being discreetly cleared at the door. Dobbins appeared, followed by a young maid carrying a tea tray. The butler gestured her forward and the girl, who Harry guessed to be no more than sixteen, approached the table nearest to Lady Finchem. Her face was pinched and anxious beneath the frilly white cap. The cups rattled in their saucers and Harry saw her hands were shaking as she slid the tray onto the table. The noise made Dobbins frown but the tray was delivered safely and the maid stepped back with a relief that was almost tangible. Lady Finchem inclined her head. ‘Thank you, Polly. That will be all, Dobbins. I shall pour out today.’

As Harry watched the maid and the butler leave, she decided to abandon her attempt to drag the conversation around to fallen women and seized on a more immediate opportunity. ‘Reliable domestics are so hard to find,’ she said, sighing. ‘But you seem to have matters well in hand.’

‘Dobbins is an absolute godsend,’ Lady Finchem replied. ‘But good maids are difficult to come by. Polly can be a nervous creature but she appreciates how fortunate she is, at least. It seems many young girls are afraid of hard work these days – I’ve lost count of how many I’ve had to let go for abject laziness.’

So much for banding together, Harry thought wryly. ‘I sympathise,’ she said, and tried to recall some of her Aunt Valeria’s complaints about household staff. ‘So few know how to lay a fire, for one thing. And the sulkiness when one pulls them up – no humility or gratitude that you’ve taken them in. I blame the cinema – it puts ideas in their heads.’

A faint frown creased Lady Finchem’s forehead and, for a moment, Harry wondered if she had adopted the role of put-upon employer rather too enthusiastically. But the other woman nodded. ‘Exactly so. But as you observed, I am happy to say we have no such troubles currently.’ She waved a genteel hand at the tray. ‘Tea? Would you prefer milk or lemon?’

‘Milk, please, if you’d be so kind,’ Harry said, as her hostess began to pour, sending bergamot-scented steam rising into the air. ‘We had to let one girl go when the silver teaspoons started to go missing – it transpired she had half a canteen of cutlery in her room. Can you imagine?’

A thin-lipped smile crossed Lady Finchem’s face. ‘Most certainly. We had a similar situation here, although the girl brazenly refused to admit she’d done anything wrong.’

Harry raised her eyebrows. ‘Teaspoons?’

‘Not teaspoons,’ Lady Finchem allowed. ‘A sapphire bracelet.’

‘Good heavens!’ Harry declared, doing her best to look scandalised. ‘Did you have her arrested?’

The other woman sighed. ‘We thought it best to avoid police involvement.’ She handed Harry a cup and saucer with a prim tilt of her head. ‘My husband’s position, you understand.’

‘Of course,’ Harry said, gratified that her initial hunch had been on the money. ‘But even so…’

‘The bracelet was recovered,’ Lady Finchem said. ‘No loss was incurred. The girl was simply let go.’

Harry took a sip of tea. ‘And there was no doubt of her guilt, I presume.’

‘None,’ Lady Finchem replied decisively. ‘The bracelet was found under her pillow, in one of the attic rooms.’

Rooms she probably shared, Harry thought, if the servants’ quarters at Abinger Hall were anything to go by. ‘What happened to her?’

‘I really have no idea. She packed her things and left, wailing and protesting her innocence the entire time. Dobbins had to escort her to the end of the street.’ The older woman gave a delicate shudder. ‘It really was a most distasteful scene.’

Harry could picture Mildred’s distress all too clearly, and it brought to mind the quiet despair that hung over the girl’s family. She forced herself to smile sympathetically at her current hostess. ‘How tiresome it sounds. And you never heard of her again?’

Lady Finchem hesitated. ‘Not directly. I understand concerns were raised by the girl’s family, some weeks later. Dobbins and my housekeeper suffered a visit from the police, enquiring as to her whereabouts.’ She sniffed. ‘Obviously they were unable to help.’

The information tallied with what Harry had learned from the Longstaffs but she doubted Lady Finchem’s staff had tried very hard to help the police with their enquiries. Regardless of that, nothing she had heard so far brought her any closer to establishing what had happened to Mildred once she had left Farm Street. The idea of such a young woman alone and distraught on the streets of London made Harry queasy. She frowned. ‘Did she have any friends that you knew of?’

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees and instantly, Harry knew she had asked the wrong question. Lady Finchem drew herself up. ‘My dear Miss White, I don’t concern myself with the affairs of housemaids,’ she said. ‘Especially not those who steal.’

‘Of course not,’ Harry said quickly, feeling a blush creep up her cheeks. ‘Forgive me, but you described it so vividly that I found myself quite caught up in the scene. Was she a seasoned criminal, do you think?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Lady Finchem said firmly. ‘I have more important matters with which to concern myself. Now, about Baroness Abinger’s charitable work – what is it you require from me?’

Judging there was nothing more to be gleaned, Harry outlined a charity dinner her grandmother was arranging, but behind her cool façade, her mind was whirring. If Mildred was innocent, who had hidden the sapphire bracelet in the attic room? But Lady Finchem’s determined lack of interest in Mildred’s plight inflamed another, more pressing question in Harry’s mind: it sounded as though the girl had been in a vulnerable condition when Dobbins had banished her. Where might she have run? Directly north lay Marylebone, and beyond it Middlesex. To the east was Oxford Circus, littered with traps for an unwary young woman. South was Green Park, which was a pleasant enough space during the day but who knew how different it might be after dark? And to the west was Hyde Park – bigger and perhaps even more dangerous at night than its sister space. The only credible sighting of a woman matching Mildred’s description had come from Hyde Park. Could that be where her feet had led her in the dazed first minutes after being ejected from the house?

Recalling her assurance that she would not embarrass herself in Lady Finchem’s company, Harry forced herself to focus on what the older woman was saying. The conversation gravitated to society small talk, during which Harry listened much and contributed little. She breathed an inward sigh of relief as the teapot ran dry and her audience with Lady Finchem came to a close. Her hostess’s sense of entitlement and conceit grated on Harry’s nerves and suddenly she couldn’t wait to escape the drawing room. Promising her grandmother would be in touch in due course, Harry allowed Dobbins to escort her back to the marbled hallway, where he presented her with her blue hat and coat. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and glanced airily around. ‘Tell me, how many maids do you employ here?’

His neatly groomed eyebrows twitched at the unexpected question but he was far too professional to show his surprise. ‘Three, Miss White. One in the scullery and two for general duties.’

Harry summoned up what she hoped was a vacuous smile. ‘Wherever do you find them? I’m in need of a maid at home but all the applicants have been wretched so far.’

Dobbins did not smile back. ‘I believe the housekeeper consults Mrs Haverford when she has need of domestic staff.’

‘Mrs Haverford,’ Harry repeated as she ran the name through a mental list of her mother’s acquaintances and came up with nothing. ‘Who is that?’

‘A person of excellent taste and reputation,’ Dobbins said. ‘She runs an extremely select employment agency catering to the finest families.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Harry said, widening her eyes as though she had never heard of such a thing. ‘Where can I find her?’

‘Her offices are on Portland Square.’

The crispness of his tone suggested further details would not be forthcoming. But it didn’t matter – Harry had got what she wanted. Peering into an extravagant gilt mirror that gave the chandelier a run for its money in the ostentation stakes, she adjusted her hat and fastened it with a pin. ‘Thank you, Dobbins. I’ll visit first thing on Monday morning.’

Expressionless, he opened the front door and waited for Harry to take her cue. ‘Good evening, Miss White.’

Dusk had fallen but the electric street lamps glowed as Harry stepped past the iron railings to the pavement. At the kerb, she paused to glance up at the Finchem house, past the broad bay windows that graced the upper floors to the small attic casements. Had Mildred Longstaff stood tearfully in this exact spot before being marched away? The thought made Harry fizz with indignation. But just as she was about to turn on her heel and cross the road, a curtain twitched in one of the windows above the glossy front door and she got a jumbled impression of movement. Unless she was very much mistaken, someone was watching her leave.

5

It had been Harry’s plan to go straight home but Dobbins’ mention of Mrs Haverford had roused her interest and, instead, she found herself heading once more for the London Library in St James’s Square, where she scoured several recent copies of The Times until she found what she was looking for.

Mrs Haverford’s Bureau of Excellence

Purveyors of Discreet and Dedicated Domestic Staff

Satisfaction Assured

Enquire at 66 Great Portland Street, Lon W

Telephone – Marylebone 1854

The advertisement was a bold, eye-catching square in the middle of the densely printed columns of Situations Vacant and Positions Wanted. Harry could see its appeal – why give oneself eye strain by poring over the minuscule newsprint, go to the trouble of contacting one or several candidates and taking a chance on their honesty or suitability when a single call to Mrs Haverford would resolve the matter? Undoubtedly, her services came at a premium but that wouldn’t be a problem among the wealthy. Hadn’t Dobbins confirmed as much? Perhaps Mrs Haverford had been involved in placing Mildred with the Finchem household, Harry mused as she made a note of the address and telephone number. It was a place to start, at least.

She began her weekend by taking a Saturday morning stroll around Hyde Park. An instructive five minutes with a map had shown her the most likely entrances Mildred might have used had she wandered there upon leaving Farm Street. Mr Blunt’s letter did not give much detail but did reveal he had encountered the arguing man and woman just north of the lake. As Harry tried to retrace Mildred’s steps, she found herself passing a small house set back from the path. It was a single-storey sandstone building with a well-tended garden surrounded by black iron railings. Two chimneys smoked from the tiled roof and the sign beside the front door read Serpentine Lodge, the address Mr Blunt had given in his letter.

Biting her lip, Harry weighed her options. She could write to the park keeper, asking for a meeting. But where would he send his reply? It didn’t seem wise to declare herself secretary to an imaginary detective among the wider public, or offer up the bank as a correspondence address; she could not imagine Mr Blunt would take her seriously if she did. But Harry didn’t want to give her own address, either, which would reveal her identity should anyone come looking and endanger both her job and her reputation. And yet here she was, practically on the doorstep of a potential witness. She couldn’t just walk away – could she?

The door of the lodge was opened by a round, pleasant-faced woman of about thirty. ‘Hello,’ she said, looking Harry up and down with undisguised curiosity. ‘Can I help?’

‘I hope so,’ Harry said. ‘I’m looking for Mr Blunt, the park keeper. Is this the right address?’

‘It is,’ the woman said, and she frowned a little as she considered Harry more closely. ‘I’m his wife. Is there something wrong – a problem in the park?’

‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ Harry reassured her. She held up the letter. ‘I just wanted to ask him a few questions about an incident he witnessed some time ago, that’s all.’

Mrs Blunt’s wariness increased. ‘Are you a solicitor?’

The suggestion caught Harry by surprise. During the war, plenty of women had filled jobs previously undertaken by men and now they often worked side by side. But she wasn’t sure she knew any female solicitors. That seemed to be a profession that was still overwhelmingly dominated by men. ‘No,’ she told Mrs Blunt. ‘I’m not a solicitor. I’m looking for a friend who went missing in Mayfair. I understand Mr Blunt might have seen her.’

‘Oh,’ the woman said, and Harry saw the light dawn in her eyes. ‘Well, he’s about to go to work, as it happens. Maybe he’ll have time to talk to you first. Wait here.’

She closed the door. Harry waited, listening to the faint murmur of voices drifting through the open window. At length, the door reopened and a tall, slender man in a smart black uniform that reminded her in no small measure of a police constable, peered out at her. ‘What is it you want?’

Harry held up the envelope Esme had given her. ‘Mr Blunt? I’m here about your letter to Mr and Mrs Longstaff, of Foxley village.’

‘Oh yes?’ he said, displaying mild irritation. ‘What about it? I spoke to Longstaff already, told him what I saw.’

‘I know,’ Harry said apologetically. ‘I’m afraid he doesn’t want to believe his daughter could be a thief.’

‘And you do, I suppose?’ the man asked.

‘I have no idea,’ Harry said, with total honesty. ‘But I’m a friend of the family and I’d like to hear your story. Have you got a few minutes to tell me what happened?’

Mr Blunt huffed and Harry expected him to refuse. ‘I’m going to work now. You’ll have to walk with me.’

Harry found herself grateful the weather forecast on the wireless that morning appeared to be wrong; there were clouds overhead but it was not yet raining. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Lead on.’

‘Like I told Longstaff, it was late in the evening,’ Mr Blunt said, as Harry fell into step beside him. ‘Dusk was falling so I had my eyes peeled for trouble. I heard shouting, went to investigate and saw a young woman struggling with a man. At first I thought she—’ He stopped and glanced at Harry. ‘Never mind what I thought at first. As I got nearer, I realised he was accusing her of robbing him. She was screaming that she’d done no such thing. Then she saw me and that was that – she was off like a hare.’

All of which matched what the Longstaffs had told her, Harry thought. ‘What made you think it was Mildred Longstaff you saw?’

The park keeper shrugged. ‘The advert in the newspaper said she was eighteen and had gone missing in the vicinity of Farm Street. The young woman I saw was the right age, and she was in the right place at the right time. Seemed like it might be her.’

Harry nodded, almost to herself. Was it possible Mildred was not as innocent as her family wanted to believe? ‘So you contacted the Longstaff family – what then?’

‘I told them what I saw, gave them a description and all that. At first, they were excited – their girl had red hair too, although that wasn’t in the advert.’ Mr Blunt paused to shoo some children out of a flower bed and then resumed his story. ‘And then I told them she was a thief and they got all shirty. Said it couldn’t have been their girl.’

‘What about the man she was arguing with?’ Harry asked. ‘Did he want to make a complaint?’

‘No point,’ Mr Blunt said pragmatically. ‘The girl had vanished – no sign of her. I wrote it up in a report, in case any of my colleagues ran into her around the park but she hasn’t been back.’

Or no one had seen her if she had, Harry thought but did not say. ‘Did you get the victim’s name?’

A faint smile flickered over the park keeper’s face. ‘Oh yes. It was Mr Lake, would you believe? You meet a fair few Mr Lakes in the darker corners of an evening. One or two Mr Flowers to break up the monotony. I met a Mr Bench, once.’

He was so determined to avoid revealing the reason these men might be in the park at night, unwilling to give their real names, that Harry wasn’t sure whether to feel patronised or protected. She forced herself to remember why she was there. ‘And you never saw the girl again? She never came back?’

‘Not that I’ve seen,’ Mr Blunt said. ‘I think she was scared off.’

Which was perfectly possible too, Harry decided with growing unease. ‘Perhaps you could let Mr Longstaff know if she does,’ she said.

‘I already told him I would,’ the park keeper responded. ‘But he said not to worry. It wasn’t his daughter, you see.’

Recalling his steadfast refusal to accept Mildred had done anything wrong, Harry could easily imagine Mr Longstaff’s vehemence. ‘Thank you for talking to me,’ she said to Mr Blunt. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

It didn’t mean anything, she reminded herself as she walked back to her apartment. She could not match the brilliant reasoning of Sherlock Holmes but she could attempt to follow in Mildred’s footsteps. With this in mind, she spent the rest of her Saturday morning considering the best way to approach Mrs Haverford’s Bureau of Excellence. The obvious thing would be to continue the story she’d cooked up for Dobbins – that she was desperate to find a reliable and trustworthy lady’s maid – but that would not give her a plausible reason to ask specifically about Mildred. If the agency had been responsible for placing her with the Finchems then it was very likely a sore subject and not one that Mrs Haverford would enjoy being raised. Harry was also reminded of the need to conceal her identity. She was taking a terrible risk by investigating at all – if she was discovered it would be at the cost of her job and who knew what else. Her alter-ego of R. K. Moss might also lead back to the bank, via the Longstaffs. What she needed was a disguise, one that would allow her to glean the information she sought without raising suspicion.

After standing for several thoughtful minutes in front of her wardrobe, Harry packed an overnight bag and took the Saturday afternoon train to Surrey, where her grandmother was only too delighted to accept her help in sorting through bags of old clothing to go to the needy. And, after some wrestling with her conscience, Harry telephoned Mr Babbage on Monday morning to regretfully let him know that she was afflicted by a terrible headache and would not be at work that day. Then she dressed herself in the serviceable but worn skirt and jacket she had borrowed from her grandmother’s charity bags, darkened her golden curls with brown boot polish and scraped them into a bun covered by a dowdy hat, and tried not to grimace as she pulled on a pair of worn-down shoes.

Her aunt had once told her much could be inferred from a person’s footwear and Harry didn’t want to ruin her disguise by wearing shoes that were too well made and unscuffed. Lastly, she used make-up to create subtle dark circles beneath her eyes and hollows in her cheeks. When she surveyed the overall effect in the long mirror, she found herself pleasantly surprised by how different she looked. It wouldn’t fool anyone who knew her well – there was nothing she could do to change the colour of her eyes, unfortunately – but she was confident of fooling a casual observer. In short, she looked like hundreds of other young women who came to London in search of employment and while she couldn’t claim it was the kind of masterful disguise worthy of Sherlock Holmes, it wasn’t bad for a first attempt. It would do for Mrs Haverford; she didn’t actually want to acquire a job, after all.

Harry’s first call of the morning had been to the employment bureau, seeking an appointment. She had been brusquely advised that no appointment system was in place – would-be domestics should attend the offices and wait to be seen. Realising she might very well wait all day, Harry had reluctantly accepted a sacrifice would have to be made at the bank. Her only consolation was that hardly anyone would notice her absence.

Mrs Haverford’s Bureau of Excellence occupied the first floor of a smart terraced town house midway along Great Portland Street. A cluster of brass plaques beside the black front door revealed the property was shared with several other businesses: the ground floor belonged to a Dr Birch, General Physician; the third was split between Randall and Sons, Accountants; and the enigmatically titled Obelisk Inc. Harry pressed the buzzer for the employment agency and, after a short wait, the door was opened by a sour-faced woman of around forty. Her demeanour did not improve as she surveyed Harry. ‘Here for work, are you? Follow me.’

She wheeled around without waiting for a response. Blinking at her rudeness, Harry almost snapped an outraged, ‘I beg your pardon?’ at her retreating back. But then she remembered who she was that morning – not Harriet White, granddaughter of Baron Abinger, but Sarah Smith, lately of Lambeth and now in search of a maid’s position. Perhaps this was how all young women seeking domestic work in London were treated. It was a thought that caused Harry to grind her teeth with indignation, even as she experienced a tiny flicker of guilt that by some happy accident of birth, she had never been treated that way herself. Swallowing her unexpectedly complicated feelings, she followed the woman into the wood-panelled hallway and up the stairs.

On the first floor, she was led into a room lined with benches. These were filled by an assortment of men and women of varying ages, whey-faced but presentable, some flicking through newspapers or magazines but most exuding an air of hushed resignation. Those who looked up eyed Harry without interest, which eased some of her sudden jitters. So far, at least, her disguise seemed to fit.

‘Name?’ the dour woman demanded.

Harry cleared her throat. It was time to put the amateur dramatics skills of her youth to good use. ‘Sarah Smith, if you please,’ she said and almost winced. The Cockney accent that had sounded so convincing before leaving Mayfair sounded ludicrously false now but the woman didn’t seem to notice. She looked Harry up and down, as though assessing her worth. Her gaze lingered on her face for a moment, which caused Harry’s heart to stutter; surely she couldn’t have been rumbled already? But the woman merely nodded once. ‘Wait here.’

Without a glance at the others, she crossed the room to pass through a door in the opposite wall. Nerves settling, Harry watched her go. The woman hadn’t offered her name so Harry decided to dub her Lemon Drop, because it looked as though that was what she was sucking. She turned her attention to the already full benches, where no one met her gaze except for an older man at the far end, who grinned lasciviously. ‘Plenty of room here for a pretty thing like you,’ he said, rubbing his hands along his thighs in awful invitation. ‘Come on, don’t be shy.’

There was an outburst of vicious tutting and muttering from the assembled women. One of them – a black-haired girl Harry guessed to be in her early twenties – scowled and rolled her eyes. ‘That’s enough of that, George Newlyn,’ she called loudly, and shuffled along the bench to make room for Harry. ‘You can sit here, if you like.’

‘Thanks,’ Harry said, subsiding gratefully into the space.

The girl stuck out a hand. ‘Beth Chamberlain – pleased to meet you.’

Her accent was perfectly Cockney, exactly the kind Harry had been aiming for. She took a moment to observe the differences in vowels and consonants, then did her best to mimic them as she shook Beth’s hand. ‘Sarah Smith. Charmed, I’m sure.’

She held her breath for a moment but Beth’s expression didn’t alter. ‘Don’t mind old George,’ she said, glancing dismissively along the bench to where the old man was now whistling tunelessly. ‘He tries that with all the new girls.’

‘Does he?’ Harry asked, then frowned. ‘Here often, is he?’

Beth shrugged. ‘Most days, same as the rest of us. Unless Mrs H finds him a bit of work and then he disappears for a few weeks. But he always comes back eventually.’

The thought of spending more than one day in the cramped waiting room made Harry feel slightly faint. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘Just today, this time round,’ Beth replied. ‘Things didn’t work out at my last place – slight difference of opinion with the butcher’s boy, you might say – so I’m back on the merry-go-round again.’ She studied Harry with sudden interest. ‘How about you?’

‘First time,’ Harry confessed. ‘My old man up and died, leaving me without a penny.’

It was a story she’d rehearsed, planning to roll it out in her interview, but it didn’t hurt to test it a little now. Except just like her accent, it had sounded better in the privacy of her apartment. Beth raised both eyebrows. ‘Your old man – you mean your husband?’

Harry hesitated. She hadn’t realised the slang might have more than one meaning. Which was more plausible, husband or father? ‘Cor blimey, no,’ she said, covering her indecision with what she hoped was amused dismay. ‘I mean my old dad, God rest his soul.’ Crossing her fingers, she begged silent forgiveness from her own father, who was very much alive and well and probably enjoying his pipe in the library even as she spoke. ‘He went so sudden, I didn’t have time to put by any savings.’

Beth eyed her doubtfully. ‘You won’t get far without experience,’ she said. ‘But you’ve got a pretty face – that goes a long way sometimes. How did you find this place?’

Harry opened her mouth to say the newspaper, then changed her mind. ‘A friend recommended it. She came here when she first arrived in London. Mildred Longstaff, do you know her?’

She watched Beth carefully for a flicker of recognition. ‘No. But that’s no surprise, if she’s working. It’s only them as needs a job in here.’

Harry lowered her voice. ‘That’s the thing – she had a job and lost it. Through no fault of her own, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Beth repeated, her gaze suddenly knowing. ‘Master with wandering hands, was it?’

‘An accusation of theft,’ Harry confided. She cast her mind back to Lady Finchem’s flinty expression. ‘She didn’t do it, of course, but that didn’t stop them from throwing her out on her ear. I thought she might have come back here to find another job.’

‘I haven’t seen her if she did,’ Beth said, shifting on the bench to gaze thoughtfully up at the ceiling. ‘This place she worked – it wasn’t in Mayfair, was it?’

The question was innocent enough – many of the properties in Mayfair employed domestic staff – but there was something in her tone that made Harry wary. ‘Could have been,’ she said vaguely. ‘I don’t know where exactly.’

Beth gave her a brooding look. ‘Only you got to be careful round them parts,’ she said quietly. ‘Things ain’t always what they seem, ’specially not in the really fancy gaffs. I heard about a girl who—’

But what Beth had heard was interrupted by the reappearance of Lemon Drop in the doorway. She glanced around the room until her eyes came to rest upon Harry. ‘Sarah Smith. Mrs Haverford will see you now.’

Loud grumbling broke out, with an accompaniment of scowls and dirty looks that caused Harry’s cheeks to flood with embarrassment. She glanced apologetically at Beth. ‘Sorry.’

The girl shrugged. ‘Don’t be. Like I said, a pretty face goes a long way sometimes. Good luck.’

Aware that Lemon Drop was waiting, nevertheless Harry wavered. She wanted to know what Beth had been about to reveal but there was no way to ask now, not without drawing considerable attention to them both. She settled for a more innocent-sounding question. ‘Will you be here when I come out?’

‘Probably,’ Beth said, and winked. ‘Unless Mrs H lands me a plum job at the palace.’

Harry couldn’t help smiling. ‘Maybe I’ll see you then.’

There was a loud huff of impatience from the door. ‘When you’re quite ready.’

She did not dare dally any further. With another apologetic look at Beth, Harry crossed the room and followed the woman along the wood-panelled corridor to another office. This one had three additional doors in the walls opposite, all of which were closed. A long mahogany desk cut the room in two, behind which sat a grey-haired, bespectacled woman tapping briskly at a typewriter. She did not look up as Harry entered.

‘Take a seat,’ Lemon Drop instructed Harry, pointing to a row of four empty chairs opposite the desk. ‘I assume you can read and write?’

‘Yes,’ Harry said, perching on one of the chairs. The wooden seat was hard – she hoped she didn’t have to spend much time sitting on it.

The woman handed her a clipboard and a stubby pencil. ‘Fill this in. We need all the relevant particulars, including the name and address of your last employer. Give it to Margot here when you’re done.’

‘Thanks,’ Harry said, taking the clipboard. She glanced at the sheet of paper it held – apart from spaces for her own name and address, it required her hair and eye colour, and her height. ‘Why do you need to know all this?’

‘So we can check you are who you say you are.’ Lemon Drop smiled but there was no humour in her expression. ‘You wouldn’t believe the things some criminals will try to get through the door of a wealthy house.’

Harry almost asked how many young women were robbing houses but stopped herself just in time. Weren’t the papers full of reports about the daring, all-female gangs who were terrorising London’s streets? Perhaps that was who Lemon Drop was referring to but Harry didn’t get the chance to ask. With an impatient gesture at the clipboard, the woman left by the door she and Harry had just used, leaving Harry alone with Margot and the staccato clack-clack of her typewriter.

After a moment’s consideration, Harry began to write, taking care to disguise her elegant cursive handwriting as much as she could. She listed her home as 12 Sophie Street, Poplar – a slum she had recently read about in the papers as being targeted for redevelopment by the local council – and added two inches to her height. Recalling Beth’s doubts about her lack of domestic experience, she made up three maid’s positions and put Mr and Mrs Honeywell as her last employer. The latter was a slight risk – perhaps Mrs Haverford knew of the Honeywells and even provided staff for them – but by the time the deception was confirmed, Sarah Smith would have vanished. Casting her eye over the form one last time, Harry decided she was satisfied. She rose and placed the clipboard on the desk. ‘Finished.’

Margot stopped typing. She collected the board, glanced at it and stood up. ‘Wait here.’

She disappeared through one of the doors in the far wall, closing it behind her. Harry took advantage of her absence to study the room. The floor was bare but free of dust; the walls were freshly painted. Several filing cabinets stood against one wall, tall, with three deep drawers each. There were no windows. The desk was heavy; the typewriter looked expensive. A big plant sat on the desk, its leaves glossy and wide. There was a stack of letters beside the typewriter that Harry longed to take a look at, but she didn’t want to risk being caught. Instead, she let her gaze travel around the office again. It was entirely unremarkable – no posters or paintings adorned the walls, no name plaques were attached to the doors. In fact, Harry’s overall impression was one of anonymity, perhaps even of impermanence – from what she could tell, the contents might be emptied in just a few hours. It was not the kind of place she would have associated with the likes of Lady Finchem but then she supposed none of Mrs Haverford’s illustrious clients ever came here. That was what housekeepers were for.

The door opened and Margot reappeared. ‘This way.’

Steeling herself against a sudden barrage of butterflies in her stomach, Harry crossed the room and stepped past Margot. The first thing she noticed was the plush red carpet – her shoes sank into it as she walked. A fire crackled in the chimney breast along the right-hand wall, removing the dank chill that had been noticeable in the rest of the building. Bookshelves flanked the left wall. Two tall windows in the wall opposite the door faced out onto the street, dressed in heavy red curtains, and Harry couldn’t help contrasting the warmth and comfort with the peeling paintwork and hard wooden seats of the waiting room. But for all that, the focus of this room was another desk, topped with green, gilt-edged leather, and the straight-backed woman who sat behind it. She stood up as Harry entered and smiled. ‘Miss Smith. Won’t you take a seat?’

Her voice was pleasant, with no obvious accent, but Harry thought she detected the stubborn hint of London even so. She sat in the seat facing the woman, noting the soft click as the door closed behind her, and took refuge in the poor social graces of her character. ‘Are you Mrs Haverford?’

The other woman inclined her head. Harry guessed she was nearer fifty than forty; there were crow’s feet around her eyes and her platinum curls owed much to the bleach bottle. But her make-up was immaculate, even if the scarlet lips were perhaps a little much for a Monday morning, and the overall effect was of a woman who was used to receiving attention. Harry decided to soften her manners. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said.

‘Likewise,’ Mrs Haverford said, glancing down at the desk where Harry saw the sheet she had just completed. ‘So you’re looking for a maid’s position – is that right? And you’ve previously worked as a general maid.’

Harry nodded, even as she wondered how she could turn the conversation around to Lady Finchem. Now that she was here, facing Mrs Haverford, she was beginning to wonder whether she was wasting her time. As far as she could tell, there was nothing specific here to suggest Mildred had ever visited the offices. But it was too late to back out now – she had to continue with her plan. ‘That’s right.’

Mrs Haverford tapped a crimson fingernail on the desk. ‘You were most recently employed by a Mr and Mrs Honeywell, not a family I am familiar with, unfortunately. Why did you leave?’

The admission gave Harry some small relief. At least she wouldn’t be immediately caught out in a lie. ‘They took on a new housekeeper, who brought her own maid,’ she said, and adopted what she hoped was an injured expression. ‘I wasn’t needed no more.’

‘I understand,’ Mrs Haverford replied. ‘But you’re honest and biddable? Prepared to work hard? Loyal?’

The last word was accompanied by a fierce stare that almost made Harry flinch. She nodded again. ‘Yes, Mrs Haverford.’

The other woman pursed her lips. ‘On your feet, then. Let’s take a look at you.’

The demand surprised Harry but she obeyed all the same, taking care to round her shoulders as though she carried the worries of the world there. Mrs Haverford rose too and came around the desk to study her. Harry’s pulse quickened – her disguise was not designed to withstand close scrutiny. Would Mrs Haverford detect the gleam of blonde beneath the boot polish on her hair? Might she notice the white smoothness of Harry’s hands that belied her claim of being a maid? Hands that had never scrubbed pots or hefted a coal scuttle. Why hadn’t she thought to wear gloves, for goodness’ sake?

‘Good bone structure,’ Mrs Haverford said, placing a finger beneath Harry’s chin to tilt her face from one side to another. ‘But how blue your eyes are. Quite remarkable.’

Harry took her chance. ‘My friend Mildred says they’re bluer than the sky.’

Was it her imagination or did the name cause a shadow to cross the older woman’s features. ‘They’re certainly very noticeable,’ Mrs Haverford said, frowning. She sat at the desk once more and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have any positions that would suit you at the moment. But next week may be different. You’re welcome to call again next Monday morning.’

Harry’s hopes sank. She was being dismissed without discovering anything useful. It was time to throw the dice and gamble everything. ‘Oh, but my friend Mildred heard of a job going with Lady Finchem. It’s always been my dream to work somewhere real fancy like that – Mildred said you were the woman to ask.’

This time there was no mistaking the flash of recognition, or the ice in Mrs Haverford’s tone when she replied. ‘Your friend is mistaken. There are no vacancies in that household.’ She paused to eye Harry with disfavour. ‘But it seems you have ideas above your station, Miss Smith. It’s not for my workers to decide where they will work. They go where I tell them and they never, ever question it.’

The genteel veneer slipped with her irritation, revealing traces of a rougher accent that wouldn’t have been out of place in the docks. Filing the information away, Harry lowered her gaze and took care to look chastened. ‘Yes, Mrs Haverford. I didn’t mean to —’

‘A good housemaid knows her place,’ Mrs Haverford cut in. ‘I suggest you learn yours before coming here again.’ She rang a small golden bell and no sooner had the tinkle died away than the door behind Harry was opening. ‘Show her out, please, Margot.’

A hot tide of frustration washed over Harry as she left the room. She had no intention of risking another visit to the agency but now that she had met her, she felt certain Mrs Haverford knew something of what had happened to Mildred at the Finchem house. Exactly what that was remained a mystery and Harry suspected she could not unlock it. To do that, she would need help – help from someone who was already inside…

The crowd in the waiting room had grown in her absence – several newcomers were clustered in the middle of the room and the air was moist. Harry cast a hurried gaze across the benches – George Newlyn was still leering in the corner but there was no sign of Beth. She tried to make eye contact with one or two of the other women but they avoided meeting her gaze. ‘I was hoping to see Beth,’ she said, trying to sound casual. ‘Does anyone know where to find her?’

No one answered. Margot folded her arms. ‘You could try the door,’ she said pointedly.

Once again, Harry looked around the room in mute appeal. She was met only by George’s gap-toothed grin. ‘I’ll tell you where she lives. Just you come and sit here so I can whisper it.’

Deciding not to dignify the offer with a response, Harry marched across the room to the door and closed it hard behind her, blocking out his wheezing laughter. Out on the street, she took several long breaths to calm her jangling nerves and cool her heated cheeks. More in hope than expectation, she glanced both ways in case Beth was there but the girl was nowhere to be seen. Harry cursed under her breath, more and more convinced she had missed an opportunity and that Beth Chamberlain might have been a useful ally.

As she crossed the road, she toyed with the idea of hanging around to watch the entrance, but the hairs on the back of her neck were prickling in warning. There had been nothing terribly unpleasant about her visit to Mrs Haverford’s offices, George Newlyn aside, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that not everything was quite as it seemed.

Weariness washed over her as she glanced up at the first-floor windows of 66 Great Portland Street and she reluctantly decided there was nothing more to be achieved there. Now that the adrenaline of pretending to be Sarah Smith was wearing off, she felt a sudden desire to scrub the make-up and boot polish away and be herself again. Resisting the temptation to hail a cab, she made for the nearest Underground station and the safety of home.

6

As the week progressed, Harry had to concede she was at something of a loss. Her enquiries had revealed little in the way of new information and she had no idea where to go next. She approached several charitable organisations running hostels for women and girls who found themselves with nowhere to stay – while the volunteers were always sympathetic and keen to help, Harry’s enquiries ended in the same way each time: none of them recognised Mildred Longstaff.

Discouraged, Harry began to lose heart. It seemed detective work was considerably more difficult than the pen of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle suggested and, for the first time, Harry felt the magnitude of what she had undertaken. This was not a story and there was no game afoot – Sherlock Holmes could not sweep in to find Mildred in a flash of deductive brilliance. There was only Harry, and a devastated family who waited in dreadful anticipation of news. How could she have been arrogant enough to assume she would solve the mystery with ease? But she would not compound her mistake with cruelty. If she did not make a breakthrough in the following days, she would write to Esme Longstaff and report her regrettable lack of success.

On Saturday morning, she decided to lift her spirits with a visit to Selfridges Department Store. Shopping never failed to make her feel better and there was a fine suit in the window she thought would do very well for work. Oxford Street was as bustling as ever but once past the elegant clock and stone pillars that guarded the grand entrance, Selfridges itself was an oasis of blissfully fragranced calm. There were crowds here too but voices were hushed, as though her fellow shoppers were keen to preserve the illusion of gentility, and somehow it did not seem busy.

Harry lingered at the ground-floor perfume counter, tempted by a beguiling new scent from Paris that her mother would doubtless denounce as scandalous, before taking a slow stroll through the endless displays of clothing. Other shoppers passed her by, in ones or twos, couples and friends and families, pointing at dresses or pausing to stroke the fabric. The suit Harry wanted was displayed in the corner nearest Haberdashery, artfully nipped and tucked around a mannequin to show it to best effect, and she studied it critically for several minutes, imagining herself wearing it.

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ The question came from an assistant only a few years older than Harry. ‘Does madam know what size she requires?’

Nodding, Harry opened her mouth to reply but she was interrupted by a hoarse shout from the direction of Haberdashery, and the pounding of running feet. She looked up to see a group of young women running towards them, coats flapping, their expressions determined as they pushed aside anyone who got in their way. Behind them, a man was following, waving his arms and shouting. ‘Stop them!’ he bellowed furiously. ‘Stop, thieves!’

Instantly, Harry understood what was happening. These shoppers were not in Selfridges to buy the items on display. They were members of the infamous shoplifting gangs that plagued London – fashionably dressed women and girls of various ages who wore coats and dresses with concealed pockets in order to steal whatever caught their eye. If apprehended, they had been known to fight and scratch their way out with more fury than caged tigers, leaving injured shop assistants and chaos in their wake. It was the first time Harry had encountered them in the flesh, although she knew much about them from the front pages of the newspapers, and she found herself rooted to the floor in shocked fascination.

‘Not again!’ the assistant at her side moaned as the thieves drew near. ‘They was in here yesterday an’ all.’

They were making for the door, Harry realised, hoping to reach the street where they would undoubtedly scatter like rats. Faces flashed past and she had a confused impression of breathless fear and laughter, as though they were half enjoying this desperate chase. The thought caused a bubble of indignation to rise in Harry. Without thinking, she stepped neatly sideways and stuck out her foot.

It made contact with an ankle. There was a squawk of panic, which turned into a tumult of cries as several bodies crashed to the floor. The lead runners looked back but did not stop. Those on the ground scrambled back to their feet as the mob of pursuing security guards and shop assistants bore down on them. The girl nearest to Harry clutched at her leg, glaring balefully up at her from beneath an oversized, floppy hat that was not at all fashionable. ‘You’ll pay for that,’ she snarled.

Harry raised her eyebrows. ‘I rather think you will, actually,’ she said, and reached out to snatch the hat from the girl’s head.

Several things happened at once. The hat came away in Harry’s hand, setting a cascade of bright coppery hair free. The nearest security guard roared in triumph as he spotted his fallen quarry. The assistant at Harry’s side squeaked like a startled mouse. And the girl glanced briefly upwards into Harry’s startled eyes before jabbing out a fist to land a vicious rabbit punch beneath her ribs. Harry doubled over, gasping in shock and pain, the air temporarily dragged from her lungs. A second later, the hat was ripped from her grasp and the thief was on her feet again, wrapping her voluminous brown coat around her and tearing along the aisle towards the exit.

Harry straightened, blinking back tears and staring after her in stunned disbelief. Unless she was very much mistaken, the girl she had just been face to face with was Mildred Longstaff.

Wheezing and clutching her midriff, Harry lurched after her, almost colliding with the guard as she did so. Mildred was fast – shoppers were scattering before her and she had a clear path to the door. Harry gritted her teeth and ran faster. If the girl reached the street there were any number of places she might hide. Harry had to keep her in sight at all costs. ‘Mildred!’ she shouted, hoping that hearing her own name might cause the girl to slow. It made no difference. If Mildred had heard, she showed no inclination to stop. Which made sense, given she might very well be arrested for shoplifting if she did. Harry kept up her pace, eyes fixed on Mildred’s copper hair. If she could just catch her…

She had gained some ground by the time Mildred burst through the grand entrance and vanished from view. Another infuriated roar split the air – Harry assumed the gang had targeted items of high value. Ignoring the guards, she hurried after her.

The scene that greeted her outside the store was one of jarring normality. Pedestrians strolled along the pavements, and taxis mingled with motor cars on the road, chugging noisily past. Harry peered first one way, then the other, and growled in frustration. How could Mildred have vanished already? Then a flash of incongruity caught her eye the other side of Oxford Street, a figure in a large hat scattering the tide of walkers. Determined not to let the girl get away, Harry was about to step out in pursuit when the blare of a horn sent her leaping back. She gasped as a red double-decker bus thundered past, followed by a gust of fume-laden wind that had her rocking on her heels.

By the time Harry had recovered her composure, Mildred was gone.

‘You ought to take more care, miss,’ a passer-by admonished, his expression disapproving, but Harry barely heard. She was scanning the other side of the street, trying to second-guess her prey. The girl might have taken refuge in one of the other shops but Harry thought it unlikely – her instincts would have been screaming at her to get away. It was much more likely she would making for the Bohemian kaleidoscope of Soho, hoping to become anonymous among the drinking dens and pubs.

Harry was about to make a second attempt to cross the road when another sudden movement caught her eye. An immaculately dressed girl of around nineteen had rounded the corner of Duke Street, where Harry seemed to recall Selfridges had a side door. She was panting slightly and glancing over her shoulder, as though she feared pursuit. Whatever she saw seemed to set her at ease; as Harry drifted towards the window display, she watched the girl straighten her shoulders, run her hands lightly over her dress in the manner of someone checking they had all their belongings, and turn briskly to cross Duke Street, leaving the department store behind.

Keeping her gaze fixed on the goods in the shop window, Harry counted to thirty, then followed. She couldn’t be certain this girl had been part of the gang Mildred had been running with – couldn’t even be sure she was a thief – but her suspicions were aroused. Following her might be a waste of time or the trail might lead to Mildred. Only time would tell.

It did not appear to have occurred to the girl that she might be being followed, although she kept up her lively pace. Harry maintained a discreet distance, pausing every now and then to gaze at a shop window while keeping one eye on her quarry. When the girl crossed the road, Harry did too and suddenly realised her destination: Bond Street Underground station. Perhaps Mildred had made her way here too and was now somewhere in the labyrinth of tunnels that lay beneath London’s streets, lost to Harry all over again.

She sped up, determined to keep the other shoplifter in sight. Bond Street only serviced one line, which meant the girl could only go east towards Oxford Circus or west towards Marble Arch, but it was imperative Harry knew which way she intended to go. Jostling her way past several other travellers, who tutted at her poor manners, she joined the queue for the booking office two people behind the girl. When she reached the clerk, Harry peered past the bodies in front of her and strained to hear the girl’s destination. ‘Elephant and Castle, please. Third class.’

She passed over some coins and took her ticket. Harry waited impatiently for the customers in front of her to be served and moved to the front of the queue. ‘Elephant and Castle, third class.’

Hurrying to the circular staircase that led to the platforms, Harry peered ahead for a glimpse of the brown felt hat. Now she knew which station the girl was going to she could relax a little, perhaps even board the train in a different carriage to prevent her from realising she was being followed, but first Harry needed to ensure they caught the same train and that meant she could not back off too far. She used her fellow travellers as cover, pretending to study the posters on the arched walls even as she watched the girl.

The journey to Oxford Circus was uneventful. Harry waited until her quarry had stepped from the train and moved along the platform to slip after her. She stayed as close as she dared on the Bakerloo Line, sensing this was the time she was at the greatest risk of discovery. When she had dressed that morning, she’d had no idea she might need to blend in with the crowd; her cloche hat was a lamentably bright green, with perky white feathers attached to a gold brooch on one side. It was not, Harry had to admit, ideal for undercover work but going hatless would be even more noticeable. As the train juddered along the darkened tunnels, she reached up and unobtrusively removed the brooch. It wasn’t much but perhaps it might help.

Elephant and Castle was not an area of London Harry was familiar with but the hustle and bustle that assaulted her senses on leaving the Underground station reminded her very much of Piccadilly Circus. Lorries and buses trundled across the junction, directed by a policeman who seemed indifferent to the noise and danger from the passing vehicles. A tram rolled by, following silver tracks that bit into the road.

Harry blinked several times as she took in the scene, then remembered why she was there. The girl was heading east, waiting to cross the busy thoroughfare. Settling in behind her, Harry did her best to remain unobtrusive, even as they left the smarter streets behind and ventured into a maze of narrow roads. These were home to ugly, smoke-blackened brick houses, sandwiched together so tightly that they seemed to hunch over the thin street to block out the sky. Paintwork peeled from window frames and tattered fabric hung behind the glass, where there was any covering at all. One house seemed to be abandoned altogether, with no glass in the windows and no front door. Rubbish jumbled with decaying autumn leaves across the doorstep. Overhead, clothes lines criss-crossed the street between upper floors, carrying grey, sagging items that had no hope of drying in the damp chill of November.

Harry hung back as she passed beneath them, aware she was horribly out of place and certain she would be observed at any moment, but the girl she was following did not look back, not even when she reached her apparent destination – a house towards the end of the street. Harry watched her vanish inside, counted to one hundred, and began to walk along the road.

Number 25 Tea Cutter Row was in no better state than its neighbours; the windows were grimy and the door had an ill-fitting look, as though it had warped in its frame. No lights shone inside in spite of the gloomy day but that was hardly a surprise; it was only a little after midday. She didn’t pause outside the house and, when she reached the end, she turned the corner into Britannia Avenue and paused beside a slender alleyway that cut between the back of Tea Cutter Row and the next street along, uncertain of what to do next. The grimness of the area sapped some of her confidence. Even the best parts of London were grey compared to Abinger Hall but she had never been somewhere as impoverished as this.

She forced herself to think. There seemed little to be gained from passing along Tea Cutter Row again, unless she could invent an excuse to knock upon the door of number 25, but she had nothing on her person that might give her a reason to do so – no charity tin or basket of foods she could offer. In fact, she imagined anyone knocking on the door of any house in this area would be met with extreme suspicion or even outright hostility. And yet she had come all this way, had tracked the girl to this lair. What had been the point if she simply turned tail and went home?

Painfully aware of how much she stuck out, Harry took a few steps into the alley, allowing the shadows to cloak her. She would knock on the door of number 25 and ask for Mrs Cartwright, she decided, feigning puzzled embarrassment when told no such person lived there. What appeared to be an innocent case of the wrong address might allow her the opportunity to spy inside the house. Surely no one could take offence at that. But just as Harry was reaching a decision, she became aware of footsteps approaching. She shrank back further into the shadows as a figure loomed in the entrance of the alley, blocking out what little light there was. ‘Who’s there?’ a sharp female voice called in a distinct London accent.

Harry said nothing. Could the woman see her? She didn’t know. ‘Come out here and show yourself,’ the speaker went on. ‘Only thieves and guttersnipes hide in dark alleys and we have ways of dealing with them you don’t want to find out about.’

Harry’s heart thudded in her chest as she considered her options. There was nothing for it – she would have to do as the unseen woman instructed. Perhaps she could claim to be lost. Steeling herself, Harry stepped forward. ‘I think I’m a little off course. Could you help me?’

There was a gasp and a loud curse. ‘You!’

Frowning, Harry moved clear of the alley. And then she understood. The woman staring back at her in furious disbelief was Mildred Longstaff. ‘Hello again,’ Harry said, once she’d mastered her own surprise. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

Mildred’s lip curled. ‘Why? You don’t look like the police.’ She eyed Harry’s outfit in suspicion. ‘You from Selfridges? I didn’t steal nothing – you can search me if you like.’

Harry had no doubt that any stolen goods were long gone, perhaps stashed somewhere safe along the way home. But that wasn’t her business. She took a breath and did her best to smile. ‘No, I’ve been sent by your family, Mildred. They’re desperately worried about you.’

Whatever Mildred had been expecting Harry to say, it clearly wasn’t this. Her jaw dropped. ‘You what?’

Her astonishment was so complete that it gave Harry a moment’s pause. ‘Your sister, Esme, wrote to – wrote to me after you disappeared and I agreed to see if I could find you.’

The girl shook her head. ‘Well, you’d best keep looking, Miss Nosy Parker, ’cos I don’t have a sister and I ain’t called Mildred. Never heard of anyone who was.’

It suddenly occurred to Harry that Mildred’s current accent held no trace of the Surrey village she’d grown up in. Moreover, her reaction to the news of her family’s distress was not what Harry had expected either. Clearly the girl had been badly traumatised by her treatment at the hands of Lady Finchem and had adopted a whole new persona to deal with it. That she had fallen so far into a life of crime was testament to the depth of her desperation.

‘You don’t have to lie to me,’ she said gently. ‘All your family want is to know you are safe, and for you to understand that you are always welcome to return home.’

Mildred laughed. ‘Quite the do-gooder we have here. I’ll say it again, I ain’t Mildred.’ She stepped nearer and thrust her face into Harry’s. ‘And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll scuttle out of here sharpish and forget you ever saw me. You won’t like what we do to nosy parkers, either.’

With that, she turned on her heel and strode towards the corner. Harry hurried after her. ‘Mildred, please, if you’ve fallen in with a bad lot then I can help you.’

It wasn’t until they were level with number 25 that Mildred spun round to face her. ‘This is my last warning – go away and never come back. No one here needs your help.’

Before Harry could respond, she had pushed back the warped front door and was gone. Harry curled her fingers into fists, and stared up at the house in frustration. She hadn’t expected to be met with open arms by Mildred but she certainly had not anticipated that the girl would deny her very name. But there seemed little more she could do here – at least she could let Esme Longstaff know her missing sister was alive, if not exactly well.

With a discouraged sigh, Harry stepped back and was about to turn away when she saw movement in the topmost window of the house. Squinting, she peered up. An indistinct figure hovered behind the dirt, pale-faced and unmoving as it gazed down at Harry. Optimistic that Mildred had changed her mind, Harry raised a hand to wave but the figure did not respond. A second later it vanished. She waited as long as she dared but no further movement came and, eventually, Harry gave up.

By the time she reached Elephant and Castle station, she had almost convinced herself the figure at the window had been a figment of her imagination. But the unhappy truth about Mildred had not been imagined. Harry could only wish she had better news for the Longstaffs, although she was sure it would bring them a measure of relief. Even so, the first letter she composed on Monday was going to be a difficult one.

7

Mr Sherlock Holmes

221b Baker Street

London

NW1 6XE

5, The Cottages

Foxley

Surrey

21st November 1932

Dear Mr Holmes,

I must offer you my sincerest apologies for wasting your time but I know you will be glad to hear the happy news I am about to share, which is that my sister, Mildred, has written at long last. She has not shared much of her experiences since she left Lady Finchem’s employment but assures us she is well and has secured a new position in a good London household.

I am certain more details will be received in due course but I wanted to write to you post-haste to release you from any obligation to us and allow you to lend your remarkable skills to others. We are, of course, grateful and honoured for your attention, and most thankful to Miss Moss for her visit.

Yours faithfully,

Miss Esme Longstaff

Harry read the letter at least three times before it sank in. Her first thought was that she was glad she had thought better of sending the letter she had written immediately after her visit to Tea Cutter Row. The encounter with Mildred had troubled her for days and she had been reluctant to heap more misery on the Longstaffs by revealing her current situation. But now it appeared Mildred’s conscience had been jogged by Harry’s words and she had written to set their minds at rest. Quite how much of her letter had been true was not for Harry to decide – she found it a little difficult to believe the savage girl she had encountered could have secured a domestic position in one of the city’s doss houses, let alone with a respectable family, but she decided that was neither her nor Sherlock Holmes’ concern. The maid was no longer missing: the case was closed.

Over the weeks that followed, letters continued to arrive demanding the help of Sherlock Holmes.

Dear Mr Holmes, I suspect my lodger is a German spy…

Dear Mr Holmes, I fear my sister’s husband is under the thrall of a witch doctor…

Dear Sherlock Holmes, I am convinced my budgerigar has been stolen and replaced by one that is almost identical…

Harry was not moved by any of the desperate entreaties. With her usual diligence, she read each one, typed the standard response in duplicate, and sealed the original in an envelope for Bobby to collect on his rounds. There was no further correspondence from the Longstaff family and Harry tried not to think about them too much. Her short-lived career as a detective had not concluded entirely to her satisfaction, even though the mystery had been solved, and she preferred not to allow her misgivings space to grow, especially when there was nothing she could do to resolve them. Finding herself in need of distraction, she reluctantly accepted her brother Sebastian’s invitation to dinner with the Honeywells.

‘Oh, do come, Harry. Mama has set me up and I can’t get out of it,’ he’d begged on the telephone and she’d felt honour-bound to accept, even if it did mean enduring Eugenia Honeywell’s clumsy attempts to matchmake. She sat through it with polite but determined resolve, while trying not to make eye contact with either the poor unfortunate Philip or her visibly amused brother.

The only interesting point in the evening occurred when the conversation turned to the mystery posed in the latest Agatha Christie novel, featuring the detective Hercule Poirot. ‘I don’t know how she does it,’ Mrs Honeywell said, her cheeks flushed as she took a generous gulp of wine. ‘I can never work out who the killer is, even when little Mr Poirot has explained it all.’

Julian Honeywell patted his wife’s hand. ‘It’s always the most unlikely person,’ he said loftily. ‘Work out who couldn’t possibly have done it and they’ll be the guilty party.’

‘But if they couldn’t have done it, how can they be guilty?’ Eugenia asked, her forehead creasing in puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Does it really matter if you don’t understand?’ Philip asked from across the table. ‘Just enjoy the story.’

Eugenia sighed. ‘Oh, I do. It just makes one feel so dull, that’s all.’ She took another mouthful of wine and brightened. ‘I found myself in the middle of a mystery of my own a few weeks ago. I received a letter from an employment bureau asking about a maid we used to have.’

Philip yawned. ‘Nothing mysterious about that.’

His mother gave him a reproachful look. ‘I haven’t finished, dear. The peculiar thing was that the maid never worked for us.’

‘Mistaken identity,’ Julian harumphed but Harry stiffened in her seat. She had all but forgotten her visit to Mrs Haverford but it couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? ‘How strange,’ she said, after a moment. ‘Did you ever solve the mystery?’

Eugenia Honeywell shook her head. ‘Not to my satisfaction, no. I rang the agency and spoke to someone, who insisted the girl had worked for me. I insisted I’d never heard of her and things got somewhat heated.’ She glanced around, her expression almost imploring. ‘Domestic staff come and go, of course, but I do try to remember their names.’

The sentiment might have been more convincing if she hadn’t slurred her words. Once again, Julian patted her hand. ‘No real mystery,’ he said kindly. ‘Either the agency got it wrong or you did. Both fairly common events, in my experience.’

Eugenia consoled herself with more wine and grew a little tearful as she insisted she remembered who had worked for her. Harry squirmed in her seat, unable to shake the feeling that she was responsible for some of the other woman’s distress. By unspoken agreement, she and Seb made their excuses not long after and left. As they shared a taxi back to Mayfair, Harry shook her head. ‘Remind me to say no next time you try to drag me into a dinner Mama has arranged.’

Her brother laughed. ‘Only if you remind me to do the same. Philip isn’t a bad sort but his parents are fairly awful and he’s no match for you.’

That was half the trouble – Philip was nice enough, if a little condescending, but not the least bit attractive to Harry. ‘Do me a favour and tell Mama that when you see her,’ she told Seb. ‘She’s determined to marry me off to the first man with a decent income.’

Seb stretched and sighed. ‘Ah, the perils of being female.’ He gave her a sidelong look. ‘Do you think you’ll ever marry?’

‘No,’ Harry said, with some force; too many conversations with her mother had made her dislike even the thought of giving up her independence to become someone’s wife. Then she softened. Thousands of people got married every year – they couldn’t all be wrong, could they? ‘Maybe, if I met the right person at the right time. But not now.’

‘The right person,’ Seb repeated thoughtfully. ‘Who might that be, I wonder? You wouldn’t have already met him, by any chance?’

Harry felt her cheeks grow warm and was glad of the darkness surrounding them. He meant Oliver Fortescue, of course, the lawyer son of their father’s best friend. He was four years older than Harry, had gone to university with her eldest brother, Lawrence, and there had been a summer when she’d followed them both around like a puppy. But Oliver had been bright and brilliant and destined for greatness at the Inns of Court. He’d had little time for teenage Harry and she imagined he would have even less time now. ‘No,’ she said firmly.

Seb held his hand up in mock surrender. ‘Okay, just thought I’d ask. You know the only way to stop Mama’s meddling is to find someone yourself.’

There was a kernel of truth in his words that Harry preferred not to examine. ‘Like you have?’ she parried.

‘I am a confirmed bachelor and plan to enjoy that happy situation for as long as I can,’ Seb answered, with equal firmness. He leaned forward to tap the glass window that separated them from the driver. ‘And speaking of which, just here, please.’

Harry glanced out of the window to see they were outside the Cosmo. ‘Rather you than me,’ she said. ‘I’ve got work tomorrow.’

‘I haven’t,’ her brother said cheerfully, and planted a kiss on her cheek before opening the car door and climbing out. ‘Sweet dreams, Sis. See you soon.’

LORD ROBERTSON BURGLARY

Deanery Street Theft An Inside Job

Maid Held For Questioning

The headline was splashed all over the newspaper sellers’ stands as Harry made her way to work on Wednesday morning, their cry of ‘Read all about it!’ strident over the buzz of traffic. She didn’t make a habit of paying attention to the morning editions, preferring to buy an evening paper on her way home to flick through as she ate her supper, and there were several publications she would not touch under any circumstances, but on this morning there was no escaping the story. Every newspaper being held aloft and rustled on the Underground bellowed the crime from the front page and, as Harry’s vision drifted along the wall of newsprint, she felt her curiosity catch. What had been stolen from Lord Robertson, she wondered, and by whom?

With a subtle shift, she began reading over the shoulder of the man seated beside her and felt her blood run cold before she had finished the first paragraph. The burglary had resulted in the loss of a significant amount of jewellery and money, but it was not the list of stolen goods that made Harry read the words all over again. It was the name of the maid, the girl who had been detained on suspicion of masterminding the crime: Mildred Longstaff herself.

Harry bought a paper of her own the moment she left Baker Street Underground station and absorbed the details as she walked to the bank. The theft had taken place the night before, while Lord Robertson and his wife were enjoying a trip to the theatre. They came home to find their butler incapacitated and items of considerable value missing. Mildred had been arrested on the spot, even though she proclaimed her innocence, and was being held at Vine Street Police Station.

Harry found it hard to concentrate on her work that morning. When Bobby arrived with the day’s deliveries, he whistled disapprovingly through his teeth as he eyed the folded-up newspaper on the floor beneath her hat and coat. ‘What’s the world coming to?’ he asked, shaking his head for sorrowful emphasis. ‘But I’ll tell you this for nothing – if I was going to steal some jewellery, not that I would, I wouldn’t stash the loot under me pillow. Asking to get caught, that is.’

Harry brooded on his words long after the post boy had continued on his rounds. The similarities to the tale told by Lady Finchem were not lost on her and she had to admit her faith in Mildred’s innocence was almost gone. It seemed long past time to face the fact that she was not the girl her family thought her to be. But Harry had not considered her unintelligent when they had met – why would she repeat the same crime in her new position, with exactly the same mistake in hiding the stolen loot? It didn’t make sense.

The evening newspapers added more lurid detail. Mildred had appeared at the Magistrates’ Court on Marlborough Street and tearfully protested her innocence, declaring she hadn’t even been at the house when the burglary happened – a claim disproved by several witnesses. She had not been able to explain the presence of stolen jewellery under her pillow, either, and had simply insisted she hadn’t put it there. The magistrate had taken a dim view of her protestations; bail had been denied and she had returned to prison to await trial. Police suspected she was not working alone and had appealed for anyone who might have noticed anything unusual on Deanery Street between the hours of eight and eleven p.m. on the night in question.

Harry shook her head sadly. Things did not look good for Mildred, which made her feel even more sympathy for her long-suffering family. She doubted they could bear the expense of a lawyer.

By the following morning, the headlines had moved on to a tragic mining accident in Wales that had drowned twelve men, and Mildred had been consigned to lower down the page. Harry bought The Times on her way into work, hopeful that Mildred had been exonerated but the evidence of her guilt did not seem to be going away. It made for depressing reading and Harry could only imagine what the Longstaffs were going through. Things were likely to get much worse before they got better, for both Mildred and her family.

Doing her best to put the matter out of her mind, Harry spent the morning responding to the latest pile of letters to Sherlock Holmes. She telephoned Mr Babbage to request another filing cabinet, as the one she had was very nearly full, and she requisitioned some new typewriter ribbons. But although she undertook her work with the same attention to detail as always, she found herself restless and irritable. More than once she was tempted to tell Mr Holmes’ correspondents exactly what she thought of their wild accusations and frankly insane stories.

Rubbing her temples in an effort to shift the headache that lurked there, she gazed around the small office and sighed. Perhaps it was time to stop cutting off her nose to spite Simeon Pemberton, who had probably forgotten she even existed. Perhaps it was time to find a new job.

Deciding she was sorely in need of fresh air, Harry took her lunch to Regent’s Park and spent a restorative thirty minutes feeding the ducks her leftover crusts. As she made her way along Baker Street towards the bank, she was surprised to see a young woman waving at her from the other side of the street. ‘Miss Moss!’ she cried, hurrying across the road and eliciting angry shouts and toots of horns as she did so. ‘Goodness, I am so relieved to have found you.’

Harry stared at her in astonishment. Esme Longstaff was the last person she’d expected to see. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Longstaff,’ she managed, having glanced both ways along the street to see if Mr or Mrs Longstaff were nearby. ‘What a pleasant surprise to see you again. Are you well?’

Clearly flustered and a little out of breath, Esme took a moment to compose herself. ‘I am in good health, thank you, but I must confess to finding Baker Street most confusing. I have walked its entire length searching for 221b but cannot find it. Either I am very stupid or the numbers are muddled.’ She tipped her head. ‘But now you are here, you can relieve my bewilderment. Where are the consulting rooms of Mr Holmes, please?’

Harry kept her gaze firmly averted from the entrance to the Abbey Road Building Society, where she was sure the doormen were watching her curiously. ‘Mr Holmes is not currently in residence at Baker Street, as I’m sure you recall.’ She paused. There was only one reason she could imagine for Esme’s presence in London and it was not something she was in a position to help with. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

To her horror, Esme Longstaff’s green eyes swam with tears. ‘I suspected you would say that but I don’t know where else to turn. It’s my sister, Mildred. She’s – she’s been arrested.’

Harry felt a swell of sympathy. ‘Yes, I saw it in the newspaper and thought of you immediately. It must be terribly distressing. But tell me, where are your parents? Surely you didn’t travel to London alone?’

‘I did. My mother has taken to her bed and Father does not know what to do.’ Esme clutched at Harry’s arm. ‘Mildred didn’t do it – I know she didn’t.’ The tears that had been brimming in her eyes spilled over. ‘You have to help her. You and Mr Holmes.’

Harry gazed at her in dismay. The evidence against Mildred, coupled with her previous crime and Harry’s own encounter with her, made it hard to see what could be done. ‘Are you so very sure of her innocence?’ she asked gently. ‘This is the second accusation your sister has faced, perhaps even the third, if Mr Blunt is to be believed. Is it possible there might be a side to her personality you don’t know?’

‘No.’ Esme’s reply rang with confidence. ‘Even if what you say is true, I have reason to believe she was not acting under her own volition.’

Her refusal to accept that Mildred might be guilty was not a surprise but the second part of her statement was. Even so, Harry was reluctant to encourage Esme’s belief. ‘I must tell you that I met Mildred some weeks ago, before your letter arrived to advise me – that it to say Mr Holmes – of her new position.’ She met the girl’s gaze with frank honesty. ‘The encounter did not suggest she was unhappy with criminal activity.’

‘That cannot be!’ Esme cried, loudly enough to cause passing pedestrians to look their way. ‘You must be mistaken. My sister is not a thief. Please, let us go to Mr Holmes’ rooms and I will explain further.’

Acutely aware of the interest Esme’s distress was attracting, Harry weighed her options. Abandoning her in such a state was unthinkable, especially when she was unaccompanied, but she certainly could not invite the distraught young woman into the bank; that would raise a host of questions Harry preferred not to answer. Yet neither could they continue their conversation on the street. Things were further complicated by the fact that her lunch break was over and she had been due back at her desk a full five minutes ago. But would anyone apart from the bank’s doormen notice if she returned late? She thought not.

‘What we both need is tea and there is none at 221b Baker Street,’ she said. ‘Happily, there’s a café just around the corner. If you will join me there now, I will listen to what you have to say.’

Esme pressed her lips together in a tight smile, her green eyes glistening. ‘Thank you.’

They spoke little on the short walk to the café. Harry selected a quiet table near the back. In her experience, café society was much about seeing and being seen – few customers wanted to sit where they would not be noticed. Esme sank wearily into the chair, reminding Harry of the emotional toll her sister’s arrest must be taking on her, and she ordered teacakes along with a large pot of tea. ‘It must have come as a great shock to hear of Mildred’s fresh troubles,’ she said, once the waitress had gone. ‘How did you find out?’

Esme sighed. ‘Through the newspaper. We hadn’t heard from her again, following the letter telling us of her new position, but assumed she must be settling in.’ She looked down at the table. ‘It was quite a blow to discover she had been arrested instead.’

Harry regarded her compassionately. ‘Have you been able to see her?’

‘I tried. I went to Vine Street Police Station yesterday but they told me she had already been taken to Holloway Prison.’ She gazed at Harry in horror. ‘Prison! I’ve heard such terrible things about the conditions for inmates. The thought of my sister suffering there is too much to bear.’

Her fears were understandable, Harry thought – the poor conditions in all prisons were no secret, although reformers were doing their best to improve matters. It was possible family visits might be allowed at a later date but the Longstaffs might find that more distressing than their imaginations. ‘You said you believed Mildred was not acting freely. What makes you think that?’

The young woman reached into her bag and withdrew an envelope. ‘This,’ she said, pushing it across the table towards Harry. ‘It’s the letter she sent but I don’t believe she wrote it. Or at least, I don’t think she wrote it willingly.’

Intrigued in spite of herself, Harry opened the envelope and scanned the letter. There was no address at the top, merely the word London and the date. It was simply written, apologising for her long silence but advising them not to worry as she had a new position as a general maid with a wealthy family. When Harry had finished reading, she looked up at Esme. ‘Is this not Mildred’s handwriting?’

The girl hesitated. ‘It is. As you can imagine, I have any number of examples to compare it to and I confess I am not able to deny it. But this letter is so very different to the others. The detail is sparse; she makes no effort to explain herself. Most importantly, she does not ask how we are.’

Once again, Harry recalled her own encounter with Mildred. ‘It is possible she has changed,’ she said quietly. ‘From what I understand, her departure from the Finchem house was very distressing.’

Esme shook her head. ‘Mildred is a sweet and loving girl. No amount of distress would prevent her from worrying how her disappearance affected us.’

Sweet and loving were not words Harry would have ascribed to Mildred but she kept that to herself. ‘Then why didn’t she write to you before?’ she asked.

‘Shame,’ Esme suggested. ‘Embarrassment? But perhaps you know more than you are saying, Miss Moss. Why do you think she didn’t write?’

Thankfully, the tea arrived at that moment, which bought Harry some thinking space. By the time the tea was poured and the teacakes buttered, she had an answer prepared. ‘I fear Mildred may have fallen in with a bad crowd,’ she said tactfully. ‘I wasn’t able to trace her once she left the Finchems – in fact, it was only by extreme luck that I located her at all – and then your letter arrived so I assumed she had turned over a new leaf. But I must admit that while I was saddened to see the news of her arrest, I was sadly not entirely surprised.’

Esme leaned forward, her expression intent. ‘But don’t you see? This matches my suspicions – that Mildred was somehow coerced into writing this letter. If she was keeping the company of criminals, might they not have put her up to stealing Lord Robertson’s valuables?’

‘Possibly,’ Harry conceded. ‘But the fact is there’s no evidence anyone else was involved. Some of the stolen jewellery was found in her bedclothes.’

‘Pffft,’ Esme puffed in disgust. ‘My sister is not stupid. If she had turned to crime, she would have found a better place to hide her ill-gotten gains. Twice in the same place? Ridiculous.’

There wasn’t much Harry could say to that – she had thought exactly the same thing and hearing Esme observe it somehow made it seem even more nonsensical. And there was also the timing of Mildred’s last letter, the date of which was just a day after Harry had met her in Tea Cutter Row. Was that significant? Had she managed to jog Mildred’s conscience somehow? But she still didn’t see how any of that pointed to the girl’s innocence – there were witnesses who placed her squarely in the centre of the crime, despite her claim that she had not been at the house that evening.

‘What does Mr Holmes think?’ Esme asked suddenly. ‘I appreciate we dispensed with his services but dare I dream he might have retained an interest in my sister? Her need is most dire and I am certain his legendary powers of deduction would save her.’

The earnestness of her expression brought home the weight of Harry’s subterfuge. What had initially seemed like a worthy undertaking had now escalated into something of the gravest importance and she was reminded all over again that she did not have the skills or intelligence of the great Sherlock Holmes. He would doubtless have proved Mildred’s innocence in an instant – revealed some insignificant detail only he had noticed that unravelled the case against her immediately – and a grateful Esme would be reunited with her sister. But this was not a work of fiction, Harry reminded herself unhappily. Esme might expect Holmes to work miracles but Mildred’s very real peril could not be resolved with a flourish of Arthur Conan Doyle’s pen. She swallowed an inward sigh. ‘I will consult with him,’ she said reluctantly, wishing she had ignored the foolish impulse to answer Esme’s letter. ‘Perhaps he will have some insight.’

Esme clasped her hands together. ‘Thank you. With all my heart, I thank you.’

Harry spent the remainder of the afternoon typing her usual humdrum correspondence but her mind kept returning to Mildred’s case. Her meeting with Esme had only reinforced how many aspects of the crime did not fit together, as though she was trying to complete one jigsaw puzzle with the pieces of another. How had Mildred been able to obtain the position in Lord Robertson’s household after leaving Lady Finchem’s in disgrace? Who had coerced Mildred into writing to her family about it? Why had she risked her newfound role by committing the exact same crime that had seen her sacked before? And strangest of all, how had she gone from being the sweet, loving girl Esme described to a spitting, snarling wretch who denied even her own name?

Nothing made any sense and Harry was starting to feel very much out of her depth. What she needed more than anything was to speak to Mildred again, in the hope that desperation might shake some sense into her, and the idea spurred her into action. She might not be able to call on Sherlock Holmes for help but she was not without friends and acquaintances. Perhaps it was time to call in a favour.

8

Oliver Fortescue had not changed much in the year or so since Harry had last seen him. She stole a glance sideways from the passenger seat of his car, watching his brow furrow in concentration as he navigated the streets of North London on Saturday morning. His hair was as black as ever, flopping slightly over his forehead the way it had always done. His nose was perfectly straight and noble, as though carved by Michelangelo himself, and his skin was lightly tanned, even in November, which reminded Harry of his fondness for impromptu trips to the Côte d’Azur, although she doubted he had much time for that now he was a celebrated City lawyer.

‘Tell me again how you got caught up with this girl,’ he said, steering them onto Camden Road. ‘I’m not sure I quite caught the connection when you rang yesterday.’

Harry took a breath. She had anticipated this question and had her explanation ready. ‘You know how it is,’ she said carelessly. ‘Mildred is originally from Foxley, which is a village on our estate. Her plight caught my eye, that’s all. I wanted to help.’

Oliver raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Very decent of you. Although I must warn you, I’m not sure how much help either of us will be. I reviewed the police report this morning, and the court records, and I’m afraid it looks like an open-and-shut case.’

‘Perhaps,’ Harry said. ‘But as I said to you on the telephone, there are one or two things that don’t add up. I think it’s worth hearing Mildred’s side of the story, which is why I came to you.’

‘Naturally,’ Oliver said, smiling. ‘You’d have had trouble getting into Holloway otherwise. Now, don’t forget you’re masquerading as my legal clerk. Keep your eyes and ears open but for God’s sake don’t drop me in it. The deputy governor is a friend of my father.’

‘I won’t,’ Harry said fervently. ‘And thanks for doing this. I really appreciate it.’

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘I wouldn’t do it for just anyone, you know,’ he said, and glanced across at her again. ‘You owe me.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

But Oliver’s attention had shifted to the road ahead. ‘Okay, there it is.’ He frowned at her. ‘I hope you’re ready for this, Harry. It’s not going to be a pleasant experience.’

She looked out of the window at the grey, forbidding monster that loomed in front of them. Inside, hundreds of women were serving sentences for crimes she did not want to imagine. Rumours abounded of rats in the kitchens and canteens, seldom-emptied buckets instead of toilets for bodily necessities, and globules of porridge or thin pea soup for every meal. Of course it was not going to be pleasant. ‘I’m ready,’ she said quietly, as Oliver manoeuvred the car through the iron gates and parked in the shadow of the prison.

Up close, Holloway was even more intimidating. Built in 1852, it was a Gothic monstrosity designed to strike fear into the heart of Victorian criminals, in the hope that it might deter them from doing wrong. Heavy stone walls rose up around a vast arched door, topped with hulking crenellations and dotted with leaded windows that were barely wide enough to admit light. Beyond the door, towers rose to dwarf the outer walls and Harry would not have been surprised to see archers patrolling the battlements. ‘It looks like a fortress,’ she said, unable to suppress a tremor of trepidation.

‘It is a fortress,’ Oliver said grimly. ‘But it’s designed to keep people in rather than out. Come on, let’s get this over with.’

He rang the bell and gave his name through a small grate in the huge wooden door. A smaller door cut into the wood creaked open. Oliver showed his identification, and they were let in. There was no need for him to remind Harry to say nothing as they followed a guard across a small courtyard to reach the inner door – the greyness and misery of the place pressed down on her as they walked, and made her feel as insignificant as the lichen that stained the walls. The next door employed the same architectural style as the outer gate, although some concession to aesthetics seemed to have been made – a pair of rearing carved griffins faced each other on pillars to either side of the arch – but they did little to lift Harry’s sense of dread. How awful it would be to pass through this door knowing it would be your home for the foreseeable future, she thought with a shudder.

Once inside, they found themselves in a large entrance hall with a wide staircase and a number of doors that Harry guessed led to visiting rooms. Her prediction was proved correct when she and Oliver were shown into one of these rooms; it was small, cold and smelled as though someone had left a bowl of rancid cabbage in a corner for a week. The floor was covered with black and white tiles, the walls were a grimy beige and the only furniture consisted of a table and two chairs. The grim-faced prison guard who had accompanied them to this point surveyed the room impassively then sniffed at Harry. ‘Looks like you’ll have to stand.’

‘She will not,’ Oliver snapped, with a crisp authority that took Harry by surprise. She wasn’t sure she’d ever heard him sound so commanding. ‘Unless you want me to report your insolence to Deputy Governor Short, have another chair brought here immediately and get someone to open a window. It smells like something died in here.’

To his credit, the guard snapped to attention. A few busy minutes later, there were three chairs at the table, the narrow, high windows had been opened and the floor had been liberally mopped. The smell lingered but it was now masked by the eye-watering stench of bleach. ‘Almost satisfactory,’ Oliver declared, wrinkling his nose. ‘Bring Mildred Longstaff, please.’

They waited in silence, a fresh, even more sullen guard observing them from just inside the door. Harry didn’t know what strings Oliver had pulled to get access to Mildred and now that they were inside the prison, she was slightly concerned that the girl might react with hostility to the sudden arrival of a stranger. Moreover, she was not at all sure how Mildred would respond to her presence. Harry had seen her on the run for shoplifting, after all. It was likely she might consider Harry a threat instead of an ally. But it was far too late for such considerations now. Time was of the essence and she would just have to hope the girl recognised a lifeline when she was thrown one.

Their original chaperone reappeared. ‘Mildred Longstaff,’ he announced, and waved towards the table. ‘Sit there.’

Oliver and Harry both stood as a red-headed young woman reluctantly approached, head bowed. She wore a black, shapeless skirt with some sort of tunic over the top and Harry could not tell whether the clothing had been provided by the prison or belonged to Mildred; the part of her that loved fashion could not imagine anyone wearing such items willingly.

But all such trivial considerations were washed clean away when the girl looked up. At that moment, Harry’s world tilted on its axis and it was all she could do not to gasp. The hair tied back in a severe bun might be the exact shade of auburn, and the features of the face were similar enough to fool a casual observer, but this was not the same girl Harry had encountered first in Selfridges, and then again at Elephant and Castle. She gaped, utterly flabbergasted, as Oliver offered a brisk smile, oblivious to Harry’s confusion. ‘Mildred, I’m Oliver Fortescue, your lawyer, and this is my assistant. Won’t you take a seat?’

The girl stared at him. ‘My lawyer? I didn’t – I can’t afford a lawyer.’

There was no trace of the harsh London accent she had used before, Harry observed, feeling faintly dizzy. Her voice was totally different – softer and considerably more deferential. In fact, she sounded very much like an older Esme Longstaff.

‘Your costs are being met in this case,’ Oliver said. ‘Please, sit down. We’re here to help you.’

Mildred’s eyes flickered between Harry and Oliver, as though she couldn’t decide whether to trust them. ‘Met by who?’ she said, the words little more than a whisper. ‘Please, I need to know.’

Oliver frowned. ‘This meeting is being offered pro bono. That is to say there is no charge. Where we go from here depends very much on you, Mildred. Now, if you’ll sit down, we can make a start.’

Still distrustful but evidently realising she had few options, she slid into the empty chair facing them. The door closed, leaving the three of them alone. Harry took the opportunity to study Mildred, taking in the pallor of her skin and the bloodless lips, both of which contrasted vividly with her coppery hair and green eyes. And then Harry could have slapped herself because she had been so utterly, unforgivably stupid. Of course Mildred Longstaff had green eyes – her family had told Harry so at their first meeting and she had forgotten. Perhaps if she had taken the photograph Esme had shown her all those weeks ago – but no, that had been of Mildred as a much younger girl. Even so, Harry felt dull and senseless. She had been a fool – a slapdash idiot unworthy of the title detective. For hardship and fear could do much to change a person’s appearance but they could not change the colour of their eyes. Whoever the girl in Selfridges had been, she was not Mildred Longstaff.

Oliver was talking but Harry did not register much of what he said. She was too busy reviewing everything she knew in light of this enormous revelation. The two young women looked alike – bore more than a passing resemblance to each other, in fact. Did that have some relevance to the case? That the girl Harry had met was not Mildred certainly explained the bewildering differences in personality between Esme’s descriptions and Harry’s own experience. It might even explain the park keeper’s supposed sighting of Mildred in Hyde Park, where she had been accused of picking someone’s pocket. What if that had been Mildred’s lookalike too? Once again, Harry could have kicked herself. It was all so obvious now and made Mildred’s innocence much more believable as a result. And yet… there must be some connection. The young woman in Tea Cutter Row had known Mildred’s name – Harry was sure of that. But how?

Still turning the puzzle over in her mind, she tuned back in to the conversation in front of her.

‘I didn’t steal anything,’ Mildred was saying, her eyes swimming with tears. ‘Not from Lady Finchem and not from Lord Robertson. You have to believe me.’

‘That’s why we’re here,’ Oliver soothed, offering her a clean white handkerchief. ‘Why don’t you begin by telling us what happened at Lady Finchem’s?’

There was little Harry didn’t already know. Mildred had been horrified when the missing bracelet had been found in her bed and had vehemently denied taking it. Her cries of innocence had fallen on deaf ears, however, and none of the other staff had stood up for her. Harry stirred, recalling her conversation with Dobbins in the hall of the Finchem house. Leaning towards Oliver, she murmured a question. He nodded his understanding. ‘If I may just interrupt, Mildred. Am I right in thinking you shared a room with another member of the domestic staff?’

‘That’s right,’ Mildred said. ‘It was a girl named Polly. I thought she was my friend. Turned out I was wrong about that.’

‘I see,’ Oliver said thoughtfully. ‘And Polly also had access to Lady Finchem’s jewellery?’

‘Oh no.’ Mildred’s reply was firm. ‘None of us did. Only the housekeeper looked after Lady Finchem’s things.’

‘But they were not locked away,’ Oliver pressed. ‘In a drawer or a safe, perhaps?’

‘In a drawer, I think,’ Mildred said, frowning. ‘I only went in there to clear out the ashes and lay the fire. Like I said, it was Mrs Rivers who took care of Lady Finchem.’

Harry knew what Oliver was getting at: who had the opportunity to steal the bracelet in the first place? Unfortunately for Mildred, it appeared that she might have but it was important that others could have taken it too. Any of the household staff could have hidden it in Mildred’s bed but Harry was inclined to suspect Polly, the maid. Another question occurred to her. Oliver dutifully asked it. ‘Tell me, how did you come by your position with the Finchems?’

‘I placed an advert in the Morning Herald,’ Mildred answered. ‘The housekeeper replied.’

Harry regarded her, crestfallen. She had hoped there might be a link to the employment agency Dobbins had mentioned. She whispered to Oliver again. ‘And you have never heard of Mrs Haverford’s Bureau of Excellence?’

Mildred’s expression was blank. ‘No. Should I have?’

Oliver glanced at Harry, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. ‘Not at all,’ he said smoothly. ‘Tell us what happened after you left Lady Finchem’s employment. You did not return to your family in Surrey. Am I correct?’

Mildred agreed that she had not. Once she had been unceremoniously escorted from Farm Street, she had been at a loss what to do. ‘I was in a terrible state – crying and shaking. I sat on a doorstep for a while, then I walked for a bit – I don’t remember where. And then, somewhere around Piccadilly or Oxford Street, this girl stopped and asked me if I was all right.’ She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘Of course I blurted out the whole story and she told me she had some friends who could help. I was so fuddled that I didn’t think to question it – I just went with her.’

‘Perfectly understandable,’ Oliver said, as Mildred hung her head. Harry whispered to him. ‘You didn’t go to Hyde Park at all? Have an argument with someone?’

‘I—’ Mildred’s brow wrinkled in thought. ‘I don’t think so. At least, I don’t remember going there, or any argument. Is it important?’

Again, Harry shook her head. ‘No,’ Oliver said. ‘Now go on – what happened next?’

‘We took the Underground to Elephant and Castle.’

‘Elephant and Castle,’ Harry repeated abruptly, earning her a reproachful glance from Oliver. ‘Are you sure?’

Mildred nodded. ‘Positive. Dora bought my ticket, said I could pay her back once I was back on my feet.’

Harry’s head spun. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the Mildred’s lookalike had also turned up in Elephant and Castle, could it? But how could it be anything else? Mildred was speaking again. ‘We ended up in this house. It wasn’t the nicest place but what choice did I have? Dora said I could stay for the night and she would take me to the station so I could go home to my parents the next day.’ She picked at a grimy fingernail. ‘I didn’t mind that. I was scared to go home.’

Harry wanted to tell her how much she had been missed, how diligently her parents had searched for her, but Oliver’s instructions still rang in her ears and she stayed quiet. There would be time for that once they had extricated Mildred from this nightmare.

‘One night became two, and then three,’ Mildred went on. ‘They said they’d find me a new job, so I wouldn’t have to tell my family what had happened. All I had to do was stay indoors and be patient, they said, while they sorted everything out.’

‘Who do you mean by “they”?’ Oliver asked.

Mildred shifted uneasily. ‘Dora, mostly. But she wasn’t always there. Other people came and went – there was a lady called Mrs Goodfellow, and another one whose name I never knew. She seemed to be important.’

‘How long were you there?’

‘I – I don’t actually know. The days blurred a bit and I lost count – mostly I stayed in one of the rooms upstairs. One day Dora said they’d got me a job in a fancy house. She said I was lucky, not many girls got that chance.’ Mildred laughed softly. ‘I should have known it was too good to be true.’

Harry shook her head. It was beginning to look as though Mildred’s only crime had been being too trusting but she said nothing. ‘So you went to Lord Robertson’s house. What happened then?’

‘At first, everything was fine. The work wasn’t too bad and I had every second Friday off. Then Dora appeared one evening, told me I had the night off. I knew that wasn’t right – it was a Tuesday, not a Friday. But she insisted, said I should take myself to the cinema – I deserved it.’ Mildred’s lip wobbled as she looked from Harry to Oliver. ‘When I got back, everything was fine. And then the master and mistress came back and all hell broke loose. A gold ring was found in my bed and the police were called.’

Oliver shuffled through a pile of papers he had taken from his briefcase. ‘This was at approximately ten-thirty in the evening – is that right?’

The girl shrugged. ‘I suppose it must have been. I told them I’d been at the cinema but they didn’t believe me. The butler said he’d seen me in the kitchen when he couldn’t have done because I wasn’t even in the house then. Nobody listened to me.’

Oliver consulted the paperwork once more. ‘I see from your statement that you told the police about the house in Elephant and Castle.’ He rifled through the pages again. ‘It says here they sent an officer to investigate your claim. He found a family of nine living at the address you gave, including five children and a babe in arms. Neighbours confirmed they had been there for years.’

‘That can’t be!’ Mildred burst out. ‘There was no family when I stayed there, I swear to it. Are you sure they went to number 25?’

‘Hold on,’ Harry cut in, before Oliver could reply. ‘This isn’t 25 Tea Cutter Row, is it?’

Both Oliver and Mildred stared at her in astonishment. ‘Yes,’ Mildred said. ‘How did you know that?’

‘A very good question,’ Oliver said, eyebrows beetling together. ‘Perhaps one we shall come back to later.’ He returned his gaze to Mildred. ‘It appears the police officer did all he could to corroborate your story but there was simply no evidence to support it.’

Harry was only half listening – in her mind’s eye, she was replaying her own visit to Elephant and Castle. She had stood almost on the doorstep of the house. Had there been any sign that a cluster of children lived there? She couldn’t remember seeing any toys strewn outside. And then another recollection hit her, of glancing up at the first-floor window and seeing a figure watching her. ‘It was you!’ she gasped, eyes widening as she looked at Mildred. ‘You were at the window when I visited the house in Tea Cutter Row. I saw someone watching me – it must have been you, Mildred.’

The girl’s expression went from puzzlement to elation as she considered what that might mean. ‘Then you can tell the police that – they’d believe a respectable legal assistant like you.’

Oliver cleared his throat meaningfully, just as Harry realised the error she’d made. ‘It’s certainly something to consider,’ he said, giving Harry a hard look. ‘But in the meantime, why don’t you finish telling us about the burglary?’

Mildred did not argue. ‘There’s not much to tell. They kept me overnight in a cell at Vine Street and in the morning I was up before the magistrate. I told him everything I told the police – about the theft at Lady Finchem’s and how it was the same as Lord Robertson’s but he didn’t believe me either. He sent me here to await trial and I’ve been here since.’

Oliver considered her thoughtfully. ‘When I first introduced myself, you seemed fearful of who was paying for my services. Why was that?’

For a moment, it seemed she would not answer. The silence grew thick and heavy around them. Then Mildred swallowed. ‘I thought you might be working for them.’

‘Who do you mean by them?’

Her gaze slithered left and right, as though she was worried she might be overheard. ‘By the people who put me in here – Dora and Mrs Goodfellow and anyone else who pretended to help me.’ She shook her head. ‘They used me to steal a lot of money and jewels and other things. I don’t – I don’t know who to trust any more.’

Oliver started to speak but Harry cut across him. ‘You can trust us,’ she said quietly, reaching across the table to squeeze Mildred’s cold fingers. ‘I will do everything in my power to prove your innocence.’

Mildred let out a ragged sigh. ‘You believe me then?’

‘I believe you,’ Harry replied and she meant it. She did not understand how everything fitted together – not yet – but she was determined that she would. And when that happened, she would use what she knew to get Mildred Longstaff released from prison.

Beside her, Oliver was gathering up his papers. ‘That concludes our visit,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘Thank you, Mildred. I’ll see you again soon.’

After pushing back his chair, he crossed to the door and rapped once on the metal. There was a disconcerting scraping sound that made Harry wince as the key turned in the lock and the door opened to reveal the same guard as before. ‘Finished?’ he asked Oliver.

‘For now,’ Oliver said. ‘Until next time, Miss Longstaff.’

As the guard led her away, Mildred turned to call over her shoulder, ‘My family – will you tell them you’ve seen me? They must be so worried.’

‘I will,’ Harry called back.

Oliver said nothing as they were escorted back to the outer gates and seen through the door within a door to stand on the concrete outside the prison. In fact he did not speak until they were sitting side by side in his car, gazing at the rain that had begun to mist the windscreen. Without looking at Harry, he started the engine and put the car into gear. ‘I don’t think you’ve been entirely honest with me, Harriet White,’ he said as he reversed carefully backwards and turned the car towards the road. ‘You didn’t ask me to bring you here out of a philanthropic desire to help a village girl, did you?’

Harry fought the urge to squirm in her seat. There was no way she could deny it – she’d let slip too many things she ought not to have known. ‘Not exactly, no.’

He nodded. ‘Are you going to explain?’

She didn’t want to. At present, no one knew of her efforts as a private detective – she hadn’t even told her family about the letters to Sherlock Holmes – and she felt the fewer people who knew, the better. But Oliver was unlikely to let this go unless she gave him some sort of explanation, no matter how mild his expression currently was, and he would see through a lie in a heartbeat. There was also the incontrovertible truth that Mildred’s predicament was much bigger than she had realised – Harry could not help her or catch the real culprits alone. Sooner or later, she would need help. Wasn’t it better to come clean with Oliver now so that she could call on him again in the future? She sighed. ‘Okay, but you must promise not to tell anyone.’

He applied the brake, bringing the car to a stop. ‘That depends on what you’re about to say. Are you in some way mixed up in the crimes Mildred described?’

‘What?’ Harry stared at him in dismay. ‘Of course not – it’s nothing like that.’

He raised his hands. ‘Sorry. I had to ask.’

‘I’m not sure you did,’ Harry grumbled. ‘But you must also promise not to laugh at me when I tell you.’

Now it was Oliver’s turn to stare. ‘Laugh at you? This is a serious case, involving theft, coercion and organised crime – the last thing I expect to do is laugh. But I do confess myself intrigued. What on earth have you been up to?’

‘Promise,’ Harry demanded.

‘Okay, I promise,’ he said. ‘Now tell me.’

She took a deep calming breath and rehearsed the words in her head, preparing to say them out loud. I’m working for Sherlock Holmes. I’m secretary to Mr Sherlock Holmes. I’m investigating on behalf of Sherlock Holmes. It was no good. Every possible permutation sounded utterly ridiculous. Harry shook her head. ‘It all began with a letter,’ she said slowly. ‘Actually, it began with a lot of letters, more than I’ve ever seen in my life, in fact. But before we get into that, I need to tell you about Simeon Pemberton.’

9

To his credit, Oliver did not laugh. Harry hadn’t wanted to relive the moment Mr Pemberton had first advanced on her as she’d been placing some documents for signature on his desk. She spared Oliver most of the detail but the memory of hot, fetid breath on her neck as her employer had loomed behind her had made the windscreen of Oliver’s car swim out of focus for a moment. She could still feel the sudden panic as Mr Pemberton’s arms had encircled her, the slick warmth of his moist moustache as it swamped her mouth in a clumsy, unwanted kiss. Most of all, she remembered the soft crunch as her knee rose up to drive into his groin, and the agonised howl of pain as he crumpled to the floor.

Harry hadn’t waited for him to get up. Stiffly, almost robotically, she’d gathered up the unsigned papers and taken them back to her desk, where she’d continued with her work as though nothing had happened. The next morning, she had found herself reassigned to the post room.

Oliver’s expression hardened into fury at her description but he didn’t interrupt, not when Harry went on to explain her well-meaning deception of the Longstaffs, nor when she described her visit to Mrs Haverford’s, and not even when she revealed the circumstances of her journey to Tea Cutter Row. He listened in attentive silence as he drove her home, refraining from asking even the simplest of questions even though she knew he must be bursting with them. And when she had finished, he didn’t speak for several long minutes. ‘I don’t know whether to congratulate you or have you arrested,’ he said at last, shaking his head. ‘Secretary to Sherlock Holmes indeed. I’m almost jealous.’

‘Don’t be,’ Harry said. ‘You should read some of the things people demand of him. There’s at least one work of fiction in them and probably several.’

‘I can imagine,’ Oliver said dryly. He glanced briefly across at her. ‘You know, I’m surprised and somehow not surprised at the same time. I knew there was more to your interest in Mildred Longstaff than you were telling me but I would never in a million years have guessed what it was.’

Harry smiled but something he had said earlier was troubling her. ‘You don’t really think I’m doing something illegal, do you?’

Oliver considered the question. ‘I don’t think so, no. You aren’t taking payment so you’re not obtaining money under false pretences, and you aren’t impersonating a real person, or even a fictional one since you’ve invented your own pen name under which to investigate.’ He paused to navigate a tricky junction. ‘The bank might take a dim view of things if they ever find out but I don’t suppose you’re going to tell them and I imagine you’ve sworn the Longstaffs to secrecy as a condition of investigating.’

She hadn’t, Harry realised with a flush of mortification, and made a mental note to rectify that as soon as she was able. ‘Mmmm,’ she said noncommittally. ‘Something like that.’

‘It wouldn’t stand up in court, of course,’ Oliver went on, ‘which brings me to an important point. You cannot become officially involved in Mildred’s case. Questions would be asked that put both you and her at risk, legally and physically.’

‘Oh,’ Harry said, her cheeks growing warm at the thought. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The people who burgled Lord Robertson are not opportunistic thieves,’ he said soberly. ‘They are organised and they’re playing a long game. I think they chose Mildred quite specifically for the job they had in mind and set up her dismissal from the Finchems to facilitate a bigger crime.’

‘I think so too,’ Harry agreed. ‘Clearly, she was chosen for her similarity to the girl I saw in Selfridge’s, although I don’t totally understand why that matters. Unless – oh!’

He frowned. ‘What?’

‘It all makes sense,’ Harry exclaimed. ‘Mildred said Lord Robertson’s butler claimed she had been at the house all evening but we know she was actually at the cinema. What if it wasn’t Mildred the butler saw but her lookalike?’

Oliver followed her line of reasoning. ‘Mildred said it was Dora who gave her the night off. Perhaps the lookalike you saw is the girl Mildred knows as Dora.’

‘They must be the same person,’ Harry said, clicking her fingers. ‘There’s enough similarity between Mildred and Dora to fool someone who wasn’t looking too closely and we know Dora isn’t afraid to break the law. Those shoplifting gangs are as bold as brass.’

‘They’ve been around a long time, in one form or another, although I agree they’re getting more ambitious,’ Oliver said. ‘They dress well, fool the shop assistants into thinking they’re ordinary customers and then make off with a fortune in jewellery and furs. I’m surprised the thieves in Selfridges didn’t have a fast car waiting to whisk them away.’

If they had, it hadn’t been obvious, Harry thought. But although she agreed some of the shoplifters had been well-dressed, Dora had worn a shapeless coat and floppy hat that screamed potential thief.

‘She was probably there to distract the guards,’ Oliver said when she mentioned the anomaly. ‘They’re clever, these women. Most of them are members of a gang called the Forty Thieves, also known as the Forty Elephants, because they started life in Elephant and Castle. I’ve seen plenty of them on trial for their crimes, including the old matriarch, Alice Diamond, and some of what they get up to is worse than their male counterparts.’

‘Elephant and Castle again,’ Harry observed. ‘It can’t be a coincidence. You don’t think Alice Diamond could be the one behind the Robertson burglary, do you?’

‘Not likely. She retired years ago, after a stint in prison. There’s a new queen in charge of the gang now but I’m not sure they’re the power they once were.’

Harry filed the information away for future consideration. ‘Well, someone is definitely pulling the strings,’ she replied. ‘The whole thing has the feel of a set-up, going right back to the supposed theft of Lady Finchem’s bracelet.’

He nodded. ‘Planted under Mildred’s pillow by a member of the household staff, probably the maid, Polly.’

‘Who came from Mrs Haverford’s Bureau of Excellence,’ Harry finished triumphantly. ‘I knew there was something fishy about that place. The girl I chatted to in the waiting room tried to tell me something about working in Mayfair. I wonder if this was what she meant.’

‘Impossible to know for sure. But if what you suspect is true and the agency is a front for something more sinister, it sounds as though you had a lucky escape,’ Oliver said as he pulled up at the entrance to Harry’s apartment. ‘Thank goodness you had the presence of mind to use a fake name.’

Harry thought guiltily of the story Mrs Honeywell had told about being contacted by the agency. ‘Mmmm,’ she said again, deciding it was probably better Oliver didn’t know about that. ‘So what do we do now? Should I warn Lady Finchem about Polly? What if she robs her for real next time?’

‘Absolutely not.’ He fixed her with a stern look. ‘You are not going to do anything. Whoever is pulling Polly’s strings must be smart enough to know things are way too hot to try another robbery, so Lady Finchem should be safe enough. But I will think of a way to pass what you’ve told me over to the police, so that they can pursue further enquiries.’

‘But—’ Harry began, staring at him in consternation. ‘The police won’t do anything. As far as they’re concerned they’ve caught the culprit. Mildred will take the blame and the real criminals will get away scot-free.’

‘I think you underestimate the fine upstanding members of the Metropolitan Police,’ he disagreed. ‘They want to see justice done and they’ve been fighting these criminals a long time. They’re not in the business of prosecuting innocent people.’

Harry snorted. ‘Come on, Oliver, you’re a lawyer. That’s exactly what happens sometimes. The police don’t have the imagination to see past the ends of their noses.’

‘In books, perhaps,’ he said mildly. ‘But in real life, they’re a lot more diligent. We do try not to let the wrong person go to prison, on the whole.’

She had to admit she couldn’t imagine someone as conscientious as Oliver letting that happen. ‘You might not,’ she allowed. ‘But I’m not sure other people are so scrupulous.’

‘Either way, it doesn’t matter,’ he said firmly. ‘Your involvement ends here, Harry. No more undercover adventures and definitely no more trips to Elephant and Castle. You’ve taken too many risks already.’

‘But the Longstaffs—’ she objected.

‘I will contact them, let them know I’ve seen Mildred and she seems well, if understandably upset and confused,’ Oliver said. ‘I can arrange a family visit, if you think that will set their minds at rest.’

Harry remembered the way the forbidding grey walls had loomed over her and shivered. ‘Maybe. It could make things worse.’

‘I’ll make the offer, at least,’ Oliver said. ‘But you’re going to have to trust me to handle this the right way, Harry. Can you do that?’

She looked at him then, with his serious dark eyes and stern expression, and tried to forget how many times she’d dreamed of sitting this close to him as a teenager, when he’d barely known she was there. She certainly had his attention now, although she could do with a little less severity; he wasn’t actually her employer. And now she had been staring at him so long that she struggled to remember what the question had been.

‘Um, yes. I trust you, Oliver.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Apart from anything else I’d hate to have to explain to Lawrence that I’d let something happen to his little sister.’

Just like that, the spell was broken. For a moment, she’d felt as though Oliver was seeing her as an equal – a partner in solving the crime. Now she realised he had only gone with her today out of a sense of responsibility to her brother. Even worse, he viewed her with the same maddening protectiveness as Lawrence, with no understanding of how stifling that could be. She was a grown woman, perfectly capable of looking after herself. She was not an ornament that needed to be wrapped in cotton wool and kept safe when it was not being admired. Disappointed in him, she reached for the door handle. ‘Thanks for taking me to see Mildred. I really appreciate it.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he said.

‘And I appreciate you feel a responsibility to Lawrence but I’d rather he didn’t know about what happened at the bank.’ She paused. ‘With Mr Pemberton, I mean.’

Oliver was quiet for a second or two. ‘I understand. Although I still think he got off lightly.’

‘Perhaps,’ Harry said as she got out of the car without waiting for him to come round and open the door. ‘But if there’s one thing I learned from growing up with three brothers, it’s where to place a knee to cause maximum pain.’

He winced. ‘I’ll let you know if there are any developments in Mildred’s case.’

‘Please do,’ she called over her shoulder, and thrust her key into the lock of the front door. ‘Goodbye, Oliver.’

She didn’t wait to watch him drive away – the adrenaline from the visit to Holloway was starting to fade and her irritation over Oliver’s overbearing attitude was prickling beneath her skin; she was suddenly very tired. It had been an eventful morning and she could still smell the stench of the prison hanging around her. What she wanted was a cup of coffee to pep her up and a long, hot shower, and she didn’t much care which order they came in.

Harry spent the rest of the weekend making notes and jotting down thoughts about possible connections in Mildred’s case. She might have promised Oliver she would not undertake any more physical detective work but that didn’t mean she had to stop thinking about it. The idea of an all-powerful female gang intrigued Harry, even as the extent of their crimes shocked her, and she wanted to know more.

Late on Monday afternoon, she detoured to the London Library and spent several hours scouring the newspaper archives for stories about the exploits of the Forty Elephants. There were plenty to be found, stretching back decades. At first they had concentrated on theft and blackmail, trading on society’s belief that women were the fairer sex and therefore incapable of such audacity. As their confidence grew, they took advantage of the more relaxed attitudes of the 1920s to expand their criminal activities and travel to cities other than London in search of fresh targets.

But Oliver had been right – their reign of terror had faded with the imprisonment of Alice Diamond in 1925. While they were undoubtedly still active, with a new queen stepping up to take Diamond’s crown, they no longer appeared to rule London’s underworld and Harry couldn’t help wondering whether another gang had stepped in to fill the vacuum they had left. One with even more sinister intent…

The second item on her to-do list was to find the advert Mildred had placed in the Positions Wanted column of the Morning Herald newspaper. It wasn’t that she doubted the girl’s story, more that she wanted to see exactly how she had worded the advert. Domestic staff very often listed physical characteristics when seeking employment and that might have been the very thing that set Mildred on the path to disaster. Harry had to go back months to find it – the tiny print was blurring in front of her eyes when at last she saw Mildred’s name. Squinting at the paper, she forced herself to focus and saw with a whoosh of elation that her suspicions had been correct: Mildred had included her height and hair colour in the advert, as well as mentioning her diligence and ability to work hard, and her home address for contact.

Sitting back, Harry gave herself a mental pat on the back. This was how the criminals had selected their mark. And right in the middle of the page, dwarfing the columns around it, was an advert for Mrs Haverford’s Bureau of Excellence. Harry knew it didn’t mean anything but the juxtaposition made her frown. She was sure there was more to the employment agency than met the eye. Perhaps they were simply involved in getting thieves past the front door of wealthy households in order to rob them, but if that was the case, they were very selective in their work. If what Harry suspected about the supposed theft at Lady Finchem’s was true, the gang was not averse to a complicated set-up to net a bigger haul at a later date. She could see why some people admired them.

While researching the Forty Elephants, Harry had kept an eye out for old articles about burglaries in Mayfair – she had found no mention of the agency in any of the reports. Whatever Mrs Haverford was about, she was managing to stay under the radar of the authorities and the press.

Weary and hungry, Harry was about to close the last copy of the Morning Herald when a name she recognised jumped out at her. It was another advert by a young woman seeking a maid’s position – a Beth Chamberlain. Harry stared at it for a moment, unable to believe her luck. She had given up on ever finding the young woman she had met in Mrs Haverford’s waiting room – it was clear she could never risk going back there – but it seemed providence had brought Beth to her. Listed at the bottom of the advert was an address in Camden Town.

Carefully, Harry copied the house number and name of the street into her notebook. Oliver had forbidden her from going under cover, and instructed her not to go back to Elephant and Castle, but he had not told her to stop investigating and it was just possible Beth had information that would help Mildred. As soon as Harry was able, she would take a trip to Camden and cross her fingers that Beth was there.

The telephone in Harry’s office was ringing. The sudden shrillness made her jump; the telephone never rang. In fact, she used it so rarely that it was kept on top of the filing cabinet instead of her desk. After staring at it for a few seconds, she got up to lift the receiver. ‘Miss White speaking. How may I help?’

There was the sound of a throat being cleared. ‘Ah, Miss White. It’s Mr Babbage here. Do you think… that is to say, would you mind coming down to the post room? There’s a matter we need to discuss.’

Harry’s heart thudded. He sounded uncharacteristically formal. ‘Of course. Right away?’

‘If you can manage it,’ he replied. ‘I’ll get Fergus to put the kettle on.’

This last sentence only increased Harry’s unease. She’d had little reason to visit the post room since starting her new position – Bobby delivered any new stationery or equipment she requisitioned – but there had never been any suggestion of refreshments when she had needed to venture into the basement. It must be serious if Mr Babbage was providing tea.

As always, the sounds and smells of the post room overwhelmed her as soon as the service lift opened and the sensory overload only increased as she got nearer the machines and men who kept the bank’s business flowing. One or two of them tipped their caps respectfully as she approached, others nodded and a couple stared at her in the same way they always did, as though she was a mythical creature that had appeared from nowhere. Harry picked her way around the edge of the room, avoiding the monstrous machine that whirred and clanked in the centre, and knocked on the door of Mr Babbage’s office.

He had not grown any less gnome-like in the months she had known him. His cheeks were ruddy, his beard neat and his waistcoat showed signs of strain around the middle. If he’d been carrying a fishing rod, Harry feared someone might pick him up and plant him beside their garden pond. But the cloth of his waistcoat was not the only thing about him that was tight at that moment – his smile was constricted too. ‘Come in. Take a seat.’

Harry did as he asked. A thick brown mug awaited her on the desk, gently steaming, and she knew without asking that Fergus, the post room’s youngest member, had made sure he gave her an unchipped cup. She didn’t reach for the tea, however. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap and waited for Mr Babbage to sink into the chair opposite her. Then she fixed her employer with an enquiring gaze.

‘Well, now,’ he said, with an attempt at joviality that did nothing to reassure her. ‘How are things in the office of Mr Holmes? Behaving himself, is he?’

She managed a polite smile. ‘I have no complaints so far.’

‘Good, good,’ Mr Babbage said heartily. ‘You have everything you need?’

‘At present,’ Harry responded. She was still waiting for the additional filing cabinet she had requested but it didn’t seem like the right time to mention it.

Mr Babbage clapped his hands together and rubbed them. ‘Excellent, excellent.’ His gaze roamed the room, passing over the smudges of grime on the walls and the tattered papers and posters stuck to them, before returning to Harry. He coughed. ‘I’ll get to the point, Miss White. It’s come to my attention – that is to say it has been brought to my attention – that your attitude towards your position here has been somewhat less than professional.’

Harry stared at him, feeling her face start to burn. He couldn’t know what she’d been doing. He couldn’t. ‘I beg your pardon?’

He blinked several times and tried again. ‘More specifically, it’s been observed that your timekeeping has been lax, Miss White.’ Mr Babbage glanced down at the desk in front of him, where a sheet of paper she recognised as an internal memo rested. ‘There was an occasion last week when you took an hour and forty-two minutes for lunch.’

So that was it. Harry could have laughed with relief. ‘I see. May I ask whether my work is otherwise in any way unsatisfactory?’

Mr Babbage spread his hands. ‘How would I know? I don’t have two sacks of unanswered letters any more so you must be doing something.’ He let out a heavy sigh. ‘Perhaps this is my fault – I’ve left you alone to get on with things too much. But it’s so busy down here and you seemed very capable. I thought I could trust you.’

His expression was so wretched that her heart went out to him. She had no doubt who had reported her extended lunch to him, although how Simeon Pemberton had learned about it she couldn’t say. He must have one of the doormen spying on her, she thought indignantly. But she couldn’t deny that she had been late, which had put Mr Babbage in an awkward situation and for that she was sorry. ‘You can trust me. I can’t deny the transgression you describe but I assure you it is the only time it has occurred. I am usually very punctual and I’m sorry I wasn’t on this occasion.’

‘Yes, but even so…’ He glanced down at the paper once again and his rosy cheeks became even more florid. ‘Was there a good reason for it? Were you unwell, for example?’

She hesitated, her mind racing through the possible answers. There were any number of fabrications she could invent and she was sure he would accept them gladly. But she did not want to lie. ‘A friend met me in some distress – a young woman of my acquaintance – on the street outside the bank,’ she said, choosing her words with care. ‘I took her to a café to comfort her, then returned to work as soon as I was able.’

‘Perfectly understandable,’ he exclaimed, and she thought he might clap his hands again. ‘A most generous and compassionate action on your part. And is the young lady now well?’

Harry pictured Esme Longstaff, who was undoubtedly wracked with anxiety for her sister’s welfare, and crossed her fingers beneath the desk. ‘Much better than she was.’

‘Capital,’ Mr Babbage said, beaming at her. ‘I’ll make a note that I am satisfied with your explanation and that will do. It is a first offence, after all.’

Feeling her jangling nerves start to settle, Harry reached for the mug and took a long draught. It was good tea, strong and bitter and somehow more restorative when drunk from such a no-nonsense receptacle. ‘Thank you, Mr Babbage. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. Is there anything more?’

Now it was his turn to hesitate. His smile faded as he regarded her. ‘Not as such, no. But perhaps a word of warning.’ He glanced through the window at the bustle of the main room. ‘I don’t know the circumstances behind you being sent down here and I’m not sure I want to. But clearly there’s more to the story than I’ve been told. In short, Miss White, someone with power is watching you and it appears he’s out for blood. I think you know who I mean.’

It was Mr Pemberton, of course, but Harry knew better than to confirm it. She waited, her eyes fixed on Mr Babbage as he went on. ‘We’re a tight-knit lot down here and we look out for each other but there’s only so much I can do against someone like that.’ His troubled gaze met hers. ‘Try not to give him the means to hang you.’

Gratitude warmed her heart. Mr Babbage, Bobby and the men of the post room were a world away from the floral scents and hidden sneers of her previous colleagues and for that she was becoming very glad. ‘I’ll try,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank you.’

Mr Babbage sat back in his seat. ‘That’s settled, then,’ he said, and flapped a hand. ‘Off you go. Give Mr Holmes my regards.’

As Harry made her way back to her office, she settled on two courses of action. One, that she would give Simeon Pemberton absolutely no reason to remark upon her work or punctuality again, and two, she would do everything in her power to find out which doorman had ratted her out. As she was rapidly coming to appreciate, knowledge was power and there might come a time when she was able to turn such information to her advantage. Her conversation with Mr Babbage had made one thing clear: while it was reassuring to know he was in her corner, it was time for Harry to take steps to protect herself. If that meant a little digging around at the bank, so be it.

10

Harry turned herself into Sarah Smith for her trip to Camden Town on Thursday evening. Once again, it was not an area of London she’d had reason to frequent, but she’d heard of the market and knew it was a place of considerable poverty. Much the same as Elephant and Castle, the junction outside the Underground station was bustling and congested, despite the later hour. Buses jostled with lorries and cars; a horse and cart was slowing everything down and a policeman was trying to hurry the driver along. Mindful of her near miss with the bus on Oxford Street, Harry took extra care in making her way across the roads; her mother would be mortified if she were run over in such unfathomable clothing. But she made it to Caroline Street without risk to life and limb, although there were some suggestive comments from a drunk man as she passed the Mother Red Cap public house that made her grit her teeth.

The dull grind of traffic faded as she got further away from the junction, although she could still hear the sharp blare of horns. Caroline Street was narrow, one of several back-to-back roads packed with dingy houses, although Harry felt more domestic pride was shown by those who lived there than in Tea Cutter Row, even if the deprivation was just as bad. The windows were clean – as far as she could tell under the dim glow of the street lamp – and each doorstep bore clean white edges, as though they had been freshly scrubbed and marked with the donkey stone just that evening. These people might be poor but they had standards. She checked her notebook: Beth had given 4 Caroline Street as her address. Harry raised her hand and knocked on the door.

As much as she hoped Beth might be at home, Harry did not expect her to open the front door. The young woman peered out at her, frowning. ‘Can I help you?’

Harry concentrated on reproducing Sarah’s accent. ‘I hope so. Don’t suppose you remember me but I was at Mrs Haverford’s a few weeks back, looking for work.’

A faint glimmer of recollection dawned on Beth’s face. Her frown deepened. ‘I do remember, as it happens, but I don’t see why you’re standing on my doorstep. There’s no job here.’

‘It’s you I came to see,’ Harry replied. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Look, it’s a bit delicate. Is there somewhere we can go and talk?’

Instantly, Beth scowled in suspicion. ‘What about?’

Harry took a breath. She had considered a number of stories to persuade Beth to share what she knew of Mrs Haverford’s business and each one had sounded flimsier than the last. Part of the trouble was that she had no idea how loyal Beth was to the shadowy Bureau; in fact, she was risking much based on a whispered half-sentence and a gut feeling she could be trusted. ‘About what’s going on in Mayfair,’ she said, pausing to gauge Beth’s reaction. ‘I think you know what I mean.’

‘I’m sure I don’t,’ Beth retorted, folding her arms. ‘And even if I did, I wouldn’t go blabbing about it on the street where anyone could hear me.’

‘So invite me in,’ Harry urged. ‘Tell me what you know.’

Still the younger woman looked unconvinced. ‘What’s it to you?’

This was it, Harry sensed. Whatever she said now would determine whether Beth invited her inside or slammed the door in her face. ‘The first time we met, I told you I was looking for a friend who’d been accused of stealing. Do you remember?’

Beth’s gaze narrowed. ‘I remember.’

‘You asked if she’d been working in Mayfair,’ Harry went on. ‘And then you warned me about working in the fancy houses round there.’

‘Did I?’ Beth said carelessly, but Harry caught a gleam in her eye that told her the girl knew where the conversation was going. ‘Can’t think why.’

Harry ignored that. ‘My friend’s name is Mildred Longstaff. She’s currently in Holloway Prison, awaiting trial for the robbery of Lord Robertson.’

The door moved fast but Harry was faster. She stuck her foot into the gap, wincing a little at the impact but grateful for Sarah’s no-nonsense boots. ‘She didn’t do it, Beth. Someone set her up and I mean to find out who.’

‘You’re mad.’ The other woman shook her head.

Harry couldn’t really argue with that – there was a small part of her that was wondering whether she had taken leave of her senses. ‘Probably. But I’m going to find out all the same.’ She fixed Beth with a frank stare. ‘Because this time it was Mildred who caught the blame, but next time it might be you or me or any of a hundred other innocent women and girls who work in the city. And I don’t think any of us want to go to prison.’

Beth hesitated as though torn. Her gaze bore into Harry until finally she sighed. ‘Wait here,’ she said, making to close the door again.

Harry wedged her foot more firmly in the gap. ‘Not a chance. How do I know you’ll come back?’

Beth smiled. ‘You’ll just have to trust me, won’t you? Like I’m trusting you.’

There wasn’t much Harry could do, short of forcing her way inside the house and she wasn’t about to try that. Reluctantly, she pulled her foot free and allowed the door to close. Minutes ticked by. Harry waited, listening to the distant rumble of the traffic and wondering if Beth was even now sending a message that would summon the criminals behind the Robertson burglary. But then the door opened and Beth appeared again, wearing a hat and coat and what looked suspiciously like lipstick. ‘Look lively, then.’

‘Are – are you inviting me in?’ Harry asked in confusion.

Beth rolled her eyes. ‘Not unless you want the whole conversation to be overheard by my mother and three younger sisters.’

‘Then where are we going?’

‘The pub,’ she said, and grinned at Harry’s startled expression. ‘Don’t worry, they know me in there. No one will mistake us for prostitutes.’

‘Oh good,’ Harry replied faintly. On the rare occasion she went out drinking in London, she met friends for cocktails in chic hotel bars. But she was not Harry White now, she reminded herself. Sarah Smith could certainly visit a public house. ‘How far is it?’

Beth stepped onto the street, closing the front door behind her. ‘You probably passed it on the way here. The Old Mother Red Cap, opposite the station.’

She should have guessed, Harry thought, her heart sinking as she hurried to catch up with Beth. With a bit of luck, the drunk she had encountered on her way to Caroline Street would be long gone.

The saloon bar was less dingy than Harry expected but the air was still thick with smoke, tempered by the sweet smell of hops. A bar lined the back wall, with shelves lined with stacks of Woodbine cigarettes and bottles that reflected in mirrored glass behind them. Yellowish china pump handles stood tall above the polished wood of the bar itself, presided over by a burly man who looked to Harry as though he was one impertinent comment away from a good brawl. Sawdust covered the floor, to soak up spilled beer, she supposed, and tables had been dotted here and there, with chairs and benches that were mostly occupied. Other drinkers were standing in clusters, men in caps with scarves knotted around their necks and a pint pot in their hands; the buzz of conversation was constant, interrupted every now and then by a burst of laughter or loud exclamation.

It didn’t seem like the kind of place women would be drawn to and yet, to Harry’s mild surprise, she and Beth were not the only ones; she guessed that perhaps a third of the drinkers were female, mostly middle-aged or older. Several of the men looked across as Beth and Harry entered, one or two nodded in greeting as they edged inside, but there was no repeat of the raucous comments Harry had endured earlier. At least, not yet.

‘There’s a table over there,’ Beth said, craning her head over the crowd. Employing a judicious elbow here and there, she cut her way towards the corner. Harry followed and couldn’t prevent an involuntary flinch at the rough wooden seats surrounding the sticky-looking table. The reaction did not escape Beth’s notice. ‘Sorry, were you expecting a cushion? You won’t get no airs and graces in here – this is a drinker’s pub.’

‘I can tell,’ Harry said, looking around her. Now that she was adjusting to the environment, she was beginning to appreciate the novelty of being somewhere so different from her usual world. Her brothers would not approve of what she was doing, although for wildly differing reasons. Lawrence would be concerned about her reputation and would insist that she hurried along home, Sebastian would show some initial amusement that would eventually be replaced by caution, and Rufus would ask her to buy him a drink before borrowing whatever cash she had and abandoning her to join the house gambling ring.

Beth grinned at Harry. ‘Speaking of drinks, I’ll have a pint of mild, thanks.’

Harry supposed that was only fair, since she was the one who had caused Beth to go out. Edging her way through the crowd, she delved into the pocket of her skirts and withdrew a handful of coins, inspecting it anxiously. She hadn’t brought much money, mindful of the fact that Sarah Smith was meant to be poor, but now she was concerned she wouldn’t have enough to buy Beth’s drink and get the Underground back home. But the prices chalked above the bar were mercifully cheap, some way short of those Harry would expect to pay in a hotel bar. She bought two pints and carried them back to the table.

Beth took a healthy draught of beer and smacked her lips together. ‘So, Sarah Smith, how did you know where to find me?’

The question wasn’t unexpected. Harry had dismissed the idea of claiming George Newlyn had told her as a lie too easily disproven. Once again, she told the truth. ‘From the newspaper. I was looking for information about Mildred, trying to work out how she came to be in such a mess, and I saw your advert.’

The young woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Quite the little detective, ain’t we?’ she said, although Harry thought she sounded slightly impressed. ‘So what is it you want from me?’

She leaned forwards. ‘Something is rotten in Mayfair, maybe even in the whole of London. What do you think it is?’

‘You don’t need me to tell you about that,’ Beth said, shrugging. ‘Thieving isn’t a new thing.’

‘No, but this is different,’ Harry said. ‘The thieves didn’t just break in when the house was empty, they put someone on the inside.’

‘Your friend,’ Beth pointed out. ‘Maybe she’s not as lily-white as you think.’

‘Or maybe someone has gone to a lot of trouble to make it look that way,’ Harry argued. She paused, wondering how much to trust Beth. ‘Like I said, next time it could be you or me or even one of your sisters. None of us is safe.’

Beth was quiet for a moment. ‘All right. What do you want to know?’

Harry marshalled her thoughts. Beth had already told her she didn’t know Mildred, which wasn’t a surprise given Mildred had said she’d never visited Mrs Haverford’s Bureau. But Polly was another matter. ‘There was another maid at the first house Mildred worked in – a girl called Polly. Do you know her?’

Beth’s forehead crinkled. ‘I know a few Pollys. Got a description?’

Harry cast her mind back to her visit to Lady Finchem. The maid had not made a strong impression and it was only afterwards that her interest had been aroused. ‘Small,’ she said vaguely. ‘A bit mousy, in looks and in personality.’

‘Could be any of them,’ Beth snorted dismissively. ‘But I think I know the one you mean. Works for some old politician, right?’

It couldn’t be a coincidence, Harry thought. ‘That’s right. Friend of yours, is she?’

‘Nah. I’ve seen her at the agency from time to time, that’s all. Not since she got that job, mind you.’

Harry tucked the information away. She’d known from Dobbins that there was a link between Mrs Haverford and the Finchems but it was satisfying to have it confirmed. ‘I thought she might have seen something that could help Mildred.’

Beth gave her a shrewd look. ‘Leave off. You think she’s in on it.’

There was no use in denying it: Beth was sharper than a dressmaker’s needle. ‘Possibly,’ Harry conceded. ‘Someone must have planted the stolen bracelet under Mildred’s pillow and they did share a room.’

‘No idea,’ Beth sniffed. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me, though. She’s from south of the river. Some very light-fingered families in those parts.’

‘South of the river?’ Harry echoed.

The other woman tipped her head. ‘Southwark, Camberwell, somewhere like that. A thieves’ paradise, my old dad calls it, although he says the East End is worse. Steal the shirt off your back without you even noticing in Bethnal Green, he reckons.’

Harry was only half listening. ‘Could it be Elephant and Castle Polly comes from?’

Once again, the look Beth fired her way was sharp. ‘Could be. I see you’ve been reading more than just the Positions Wanted column in the newspaper. You think the Forty Elephants are behind that robbery.’

‘It makes sense,’ Harry said. She scanned Beth’s face and decided to take a risk. ‘Think about it. Mrs Haverford finds staff for a lot of wealthy families. What if someone at the agency is part of the gang? They pick a house, put someone on the inside and then set up one of the other domestics to take the blame.’

‘The police would catch on,’ Beth scoffed.

‘Only if they heard about it,’ Harry argued as another thought occurred to her. ‘Jewellery’s not the only thing worth money in houses like that.’

‘Blackmail, you mean?’ Beth considered this fresh suggestion, her eyes never leaving Harry. ‘I go to Mrs Haverford’s,’ she said at length. ‘How do you know I’m not one of them?’

Harry puffed out a long breath. ‘I don’t.’

The other woman lapsed into thoughtful silence. Noticing the full pint on the table in front of her, Harry raised her glass, caught a whiff of it and hastily lowered it again. She had no idea what went into a pint of mild and she had no interest in finding out. Carefully, she glanced around the bar to see if anyone was paying attention but Beth had been true to her word; as far as Harry could tell, no one had even noticed them.

‘You might be right,’ Beth said, stirring to reach for her own drink. ‘There’s a few domestics that get work through the agency that shouldn’t – lazy or downright nasty types you wouldn’t trust with tuppence, let alone the silverware. I’ve always wondered why Mrs Haverford puts up with them but maybe there’s a good reason she does.’

‘Do you know where Polly lives?’ Harry asked, hoping she might be able to track the girl down but Beth shook her head.

‘Can’t help you there,’ she said, and drained her glass with a speed that caused Harry’s jaw to drop. ‘But her surname is Spender.’

It wasn’t much but it was more than she’d known before. ‘Thank you,’ Harry said. ‘I really appreciate you talking to me.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Beth replied. She eyed Harry’s untouched drink. ‘You going to finish that?’

Harry got to her feet. ‘No. It’s all yours.’

Beth grinned. ‘You can come again, Sarah Smith.’ She slid the drink across the wood until it sat in front of her. ‘A word of warning, though. That toffee-nosed accent of yours creeps through every now and then. You should work on that before you do any more snooping.’

Dismay twisted in Harry’s stomach. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I’m from Poplar.’

‘And I’m from Buckingham Palace,’ Beth said with a cackle. She looked up at Harry and her gaze softened. ‘All I’m saying is have a care for your safety. There are dangerous people around. People who don’t like the kind of questions you’re asking. If you’re going to pretend to be one of us, do it better.’

The words sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. ‘I will. Thanks.’

With a final nod, Beth turned her attention to her drink and Harry knew she was dismissed. Outside the pub, she took a deep breath of the cool night air, blessedly free from cigarette smoke, and reviewed her evening’s work. It had been a risk coming to Camden Town but she was certain it had been worth it. All she had to do now was ensure Oliver never found out.

11

It was with some trepidation that Harry took the train to Abinger Hall on Saturday morning. Her mother had telephoned on Friday to inform her of a dinner party and had made it very clear that it was not a request Harry was expected to decline. ‘Sebastian is coming back, and Lawrence. If they can tear themselves away from London then I’m sure you can too.’

Being summoned home was not the issue, although Harry had planned to spend the weekend considering her next investigative move. Her mother was not, by and large, especially demanding of her children and the truth was it had been some time since Harry, Seb and Lawrence had all been there at the same time. She loved being at home when her brothers were there; it reminded her of the golden summers of their youth when they’d conspired to escape the nanny and play hide-and-seek in the woods around the estate. But there was no getting away now and the mere thought of a dinner party dampened Harry’s spirits.

Children had been banished from dinner parties when she’d been young and she’d loved sneaking out of bed to spy through the bannisters at the glamorous visitors as they arrived. That was when she’d first seen Baroness Campbell von Laurentz, and she’d been astounded to see her driving her very own Rolls-Royce. Today’s guests would have no such appeal. They would probably be friends of her grandfather or father; she would have to make small talk and listen to endless stories about topics she cared nothing about, when what she really wanted to do was catch up with her brothers in the comfort of the library, with a dog on her lap and a glass of really good port in her hand.

But her heart really plummeted when she walked into the vast hallway and learned from her mother who the weekend guests were. ‘Lord and Lady Finchem,’ Evelyn said, in answer to her question. ‘And their sons, of course. I understand from Phyllida that you didn’t meet either of them during your visit to her so now is your chance.’

Beside Harry, Seb covered a smile. ‘Lucky you, Sis.’

Evelyn turned a severe expression upon him. ‘I’ve also invited the Goldsworthys, with their two girls. You could do a lot worse than charm one of them up the aisle.’

Sebastian sighed. ‘I can certainly charm them, Mama, but the chances of me marrying either are slim to none.’

‘Never say never,’ Evelyn said encouragingly. ‘And don’t look like that, Harriet. If either of you showed the least care for your futures, I wouldn’t have to go to all this trouble.’

Harry and Seb exchanged a look. This was a well-worn topic of conversation and neither had any inclination to suffer it again. Thankfully, the sound of an engine outside caught their mother’s attention. ‘Ah, that will be Lawrence and Oliver, I expect.’

Harry froze. ‘Oliver? As in Oliver Fortescue?’

‘Of course,’ her mother said. ‘How many other Olivers do we know?’

‘Several,’ Seb put in mildly. ‘It’s quite a common name.’

Evelyn tutted. ‘Don’t be so rude. There’s nothing common about Oliver.’ She made for the door, shadowed by a silent Chesterton. ‘You can both say hello, then make yourselves presentable. Our guests will be arriving soon and I want you both to make a good impression.’

Seb nudged Harry. ‘Oliver Fortescue. Looks like it really is your lucky day.’

Harry felt her cheeks grow warm but she said nothing. She’d had one unsatisfactory update from Oliver since their visit to Holloway – he’d written to confirm he had been in touch with Mildred’s family, and he was awaiting a trial date but that was all. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing that he was at Abinger this weekend. It might give her an opportunity to find out if there was any progress.

Conscious of Seb’s eagle-eyed attention, Harry had to remind herself not to stare as Oliver entered the hall. Half a head taller than Lawrence and utterly at ease in the grandeur of Abinger, she watched him bend to kiss her mother’s cheek, smiling at something she had said, and was instantly seventeen years old again. When she had seen him in London, it had felt like neutral territory but here she seemed to have been ambushed by a jumble of emotions she hadn’t felt for years. He straightened up and saw her. She nodded warily, hoping her face wasn’t glowing the way she imagined, and he nodded back. And then Lawrence was sweeping her into a hug. ‘And how’s my favourite sister? You look as wonderful as ever, all rosy-cheeked charm and mischievous twinkle.’

‘You make me sound like a Christmas ornament,’ she grumbled indistinctly, her face somewhat squashed into his overcoat.

‘Could be worse.’ Releasing her, Lawrence tossed a glance over one shoulder. ‘You remember Oliver Fortescue, don’t you? My old university pal.’

Grinning widely, Seb opened his mouth to reply but Harry beat him to it. ‘Of course. I didn’t realise he was joining us.’

Her eldest brother raised his sandy eyebrows. ‘He wasn’t. But we’re members of the same club. I ran into him yesterday, mentioned I was coming down here for Mama’s blasted dinner party, and he suggested joining me.’

A frown began to dig into Harry’s forehead and she forced herself to look unconcerned. Had Oliver invited himself before or after discovering Lady Finchem would be at Abinger Hall? Surely he wouldn’t come all the way here to make sure Harry didn’t raise the subject of Mildred. ‘Did he?’ she said with a faint smile. ‘How splendid.’

Once again, she felt Seb was about to interject but this time she was saved by Oliver himself. ‘Seb, you old rascal,’ he said, extending a hand to shake. ‘It’s been too long.’

‘I should say,’ Seb replied. ‘Last December, wasn’t it? One of Mama’s festive shindigs.’

‘Probably,’ Oliver agreed. ‘I have a hazy recollection of some excellent cheese and rather too much champagne.’

‘I’m not sure it’s actually possible to have too much champagne,’ Seb said. ‘But here I am waffling away when Harry is simply burning to say hello.’

He turned an impish gaze her way and she returned it with narrowed eyes that told him she would deal with him later. ‘Ah, Harry,’ Oliver said. ‘I hope you’re well?’

‘I am, thank you,’ she said, matching his formal tone. ‘Although I confess I’m a little surprised to see you. What brings you to Abinger this weekend?’

He knew what she was getting at, she was sure, but he did not take the bait. ‘Lawrence mentioned a family party and I couldn’t resist gatecrashing.’

Evelyn appeared at his side. ‘None of that, Oliver. As far as I’m concerned, you are family. Lawrence, why don’t you show Oliver to his room? The rest of you can hurry along too – Chesterton will organise your bags. The Finchems will be here at any moment and I’d rather the hallway didn’t resemble Paddington station when they arrive.’

Harry’s eyes flashed to Oliver’s at the mention of the Finchems but he was following Lawrence towards the grand staircase and seemed not to have heard. She still wasn’t sure how his unexpected presence made her feel. On one hand, it gave her an opportunity to grill him about developments in Mildred’s case but, on the other, she didn’t like the idea of him breathing down her neck every time she so much as blinked near Lady Finchem. And then there was the matter of her brother’s relentless teasing. She would have to speak to him about that.

In other circumstances, Harry would have made an excuse to avoid joining their guests for welcome drinks in the drawing room but she suspected Oliver might do exactly that, which might give her the chance to approach Lady Finchem. She had no idea how she would raise the subject of Polly Spender without incurring the wrath of her mother but she hoped an opportunity would present itself. Unfortunately, it seemed Oliver had anticipated her intentions: when Harry entered the drawing room, he was already there, standing beside the fireplace with a glass in his hand, deep in conversation with her father. Swallowing a disgruntled sigh, she started towards the drinks trolley. If she was going to be bored, she may as well do it with a gin and tonic to numb the pain.

Almost immediately, Evelyn was at her side and steering her towards the window. ‘Harry, darling, do come and say hello to the Finchems.’

‘Can I at least get a drink first?’ Harry asked plaintively.

‘Your father will mix you one. You know how much he enjoys playing bartender,’ her mother said and Harry knew better than to argue.

Phyllida Finchem was sitting in an armchair in the bay window that looked out across the lake. Three men stood near her. One was older, bearded and grey at the temples, and she assumed this was Lord Finchem. The other two were younger, both dark haired and good-looking; Harry guessed they were somewhere between twenty and twenty-five. These must be the sons her mother was so desperate for her to meet. Lady Finchem rose graciously as Evelyn and Harry approached. ‘Miss White,’ she said. ‘How charming to meet you again.’

‘And you,’ Harry replied. ‘I trust you are well?’

‘Tolerably so,’ Lady Finchem replied. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my husband, Lord Finchem. Henry, this is Miss White, Baron Abinger’s granddaughter.’

The grey-haired man nodded. ‘How do you do?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ Harry said. ‘I hope you had a good journey.’

‘Awful, to be perfectly honest. The roads were dreadful and my driver seems to have forgotten what the accelerator was for.’ Lord Finchem glared at her as though she were personally responsible for the traffic. ‘Still, we’re here now.’

Harry smiled politely. ‘You are indeed and we are very glad to have you.’ She turned to her mother, who was hovering at her elbow. ‘Did you mention a drink? Gin would be lovely.’

As Evelyn left her, Harry risked a glance across at Oliver. He was now talking to her uncle, since her father was busy mixing drinks, but she could see his gaze flicking towards her every now and then. She turned to Lady Finchem once more. ‘Won’t you introduce me to your sons?’

Perhaps it was her mother’s constant match-making efforts but Harry always felt the dragging weight of expectation when meeting eligible men of around her own age and, from the slightly pained smiles of James and Percy Finchem when they were introduced, she guessed they felt the same. James was the elder, although Harry doubted there was more than a year or two in it. He took her hand and kissed it, a gesture that was so extravagantly suave it took all Harry’s self-composure not to laugh. ‘How charming to meet you, Miss White. I’ve heard so much about you.’

‘And I you,’ she replied, omitting to add that most of what she had heard concerned his future income. ‘Such a pleasure to meet you at last.’

He smiled. ‘And may I say, the reports of your beauty don’t do you justice. I’m quite captivated.’

His brother groaned. ‘Don’t mind James. He thinks he’s the hero in a Jane Austen novel.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m Percy. Pleased to meet you.’

And now Harry did laugh. ‘Lovely to meet you too, Percy.’

She was spared from any further displays of sibling rivalry by the arrival of her mother with a tall gin and tonic. ‘Here you are, Harry. Now, I must just go and attend to the Goldsworthys.’

She bustled off, leaving Harry once more with the Finchems. James was regarding her curiously. ‘Are you really called Harry or is it a nickname?’

‘My birth name is Harriet but everyone calls me Harry,’ she explained, and took a long sip of her drink. ‘Are you always James or might your friends dare to call you Jim?’

Lady Finchem made a faintly horrified sound. ‘We do not abbreviate our names as a rule.’

Percy sighed. ‘I can’t help wishing you’d gone for the longer version of mine, though. Percival sounds terribly noble, don’t you think, Harry?’

‘Quite Arthurian,’ she agreed, and turned to James. ‘Whereas yours is more royal.’

A movement by the fireplace caught her eye. It appeared Oliver had concluded his conversation with Uncle Tobias and had now turned to watch the scene in the window. Suspecting he would come over in a moment, Harry fixed Lady Finchem with a puzzled look. ‘I do believe your housemaid had an unusual name. What was it now – something Shakespearean, I think. Paulina?’

There was a frozen silence. ‘Are you referring to Polly?’ the older woman replied at last, her tone dripping with disapproval. ‘I hardly think that is a name worthy of Shakespeare.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Harry exclaimed with a tinkling laugh. ‘How silly of me – of course it was Polly. Just like in the nursery rhyme.’

Percy shook his head. ‘Polly doesn’t put the kettle on any more,’ he said. ‘She left a few weeks ago.’

The revelation was so unexpected that it almost made Harry choke on her gin. Hastily, she covered her mouth, arranging her features into an expression of polite sympathy. ‘How inconvenient. I do hope your housekeeper has been able to find a replacement?’

But whether she had or hadn’t was overshadowed by Oliver’s jovial greetings. He shook Lord Finchem’s hand, then those of his sons, and Harry was entirely unsurprised to note he seemed to be well acquainted with the family. ‘Has Harry been keeping you entertained?’ he asked.

‘She certainly entertains me,’ James said, with an admiring glance that almost made Harry blush.

‘See?’ Percy complained in mock-embarrassment. ‘I can’t take him anywhere.’

On another occasion, Harry might have been tempted to flirt back but her mind was too busy unravelling the Finchem household gossip. So Polly no longer worked for them… Had she served her purpose there and been moved on by Mrs Haverford? she wondered. Or was there another reason for her sudden departure? But she could hardly ask with Oliver looming over her. She would just have to wait for another opportunity to find out more.

‘Will the baron be joining us?’ Lord Finchem asked loudly. ‘I’ve got some important parliamentary matters to discuss with him.’

‘And I would like to speak with the baroness,’ Lady Finchem added. ‘They’re seen so rarely in London these days. Are they both well?’

Harry thought of her grandparents, both in their early eighties and showing no signs of slowing down. It was true that they were not regular visitors to London, however; Baron Abinger attended the House of Lords when duty required but had long since delegated the family’s society obligations to Harry’s father. ‘If old age is good for anything, it’s not having to suffer fools prattling on about nothing,’ he had declared on more than one occasion.

Baroness Abinger was more gracious in company but was kept busy by her charitable endeavours. She was content to let her daughter-in-law fly the Abinger flag in London, which Evelyn did with enthusiasm. Harry had sought each of her grandparents out not long after arriving at the hall that morning, only to learn from their housekeeper, Mrs Pilbeam, that her grandfather had gone clay pigeon shooting on the west side of the estate. When she’d remarked upon his absence to Seb, he’d smirked. ‘Grandpapa’s no fool. He can’t stand Henry Finchem, says he’s a dreadful old bore.’

She’d had better luck with her grandmother, whom she had found in the cluttered but cosy room the baroness used as a study. ‘It’s always lovely to see you, Harry,’ she had said, barely glancing up from her desk. ‘But I simply must finish these letters. Be a dear and tell your mother I’ll see our guests at dinner.’

In answer to Lady Finchem’s nosiness, Harry adopted a diplomatic smile. ‘They are both very well, thank you, but unfortunately taken up with unavoidable estate business at the moment. I’m sure you will see them this evening.’

‘Where’s Rufus?’ Percy asked suddenly. ‘He’s always good fun. I rather hoped he’d be here.’

It was a good question, Harry thought, glancing around the room. Where was her youngest brother? Lawrence was sitting on the arm of the sofa beside Sebastian, chatting amiably with the Goldsworthy girls. Her mother was deep in conversation with Mrs Goldsworthy and her father was mixing Mr Goldsworthy another whisky. How had Rufus managed to wriggle out of their mother’s summons? ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Harry said truthfully. ‘Are you friends?’

She’d appraised her original opinion of Percy’s age as they’d been talking and now estimated him to be older than she’d thought – nearer her age than her youngest brother’s. But perhaps they had attended the same school, although Percy must have been several years above. ‘Acquaintances more than friends, I’d say,’ Percy explained. ‘He was quite the character at school. Never a dull moment when Rufus was around.’

‘The boy needs a purpose,’ Lord Finchem rumbled. ‘Like Fortescue here. No chance of him scandalising the neighbourhood with brawls and other damnable behaviour.’

Harry stiffened at his evident disapproval. ‘I know Rufus is a little wayward but I hardly think—’

‘Wayward,’ Lord Finchem repeated incredulously. ‘He was arrested for being drunk and disorderly in Piccadilly last week. Fortescue had to smooth things out.’ He rounded on Oliver. ‘Didn’t you? Come on, man, speak up.’

It was news to Harry. She gazed at Oliver in consternation. ‘Did you?’

‘It was all a misunderstanding,’ he said soothingly. ‘Youthful high spirits. No charges were brought.’

‘All the same—’ Harry began, wondering why no one had thought to mention it to her. Being arrested was no small thing.

‘It was nothing,’ Oliver reassured her. ‘He’d got in with an excitable crowd – that’s all. No harm done.’

Not this time, Harry wanted to say, but she was aware that Lady Finchem once again seemed to be radiating ice. ‘I’m glad you were on hand to help,’ she said to Oliver. ‘Thank you.’

‘Indeed,’ Lady Finchem observed, eyeing Oliver as though he was somehow mixed up in Rufus’s disgrace. ‘So useful to have friends in the legal business to call upon in times of need.’

Harry had heard enough. ‘Will you excuse me?’ she said, summoning up a smile that she hoped was less brittle than she felt. ‘I’ve just remembered something I need to discuss with Mama.’

Without waiting for a reply, she went to stand near her mother, who was regaling Mrs Goldsworthy with an apparently hilarious story about a mutual acquaintance. For the sake of form, Harry loitered for five minutes, nodding and smiling in the right places while Lord Finchem’s accusations whirled round and round her head. The moment she felt she could slip unnoticed from the room, she made good her escape. Briefly, she contemplated hurrying from the hall and running all the way to the woods, the way she had as a child, but the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. Perhaps a lie-down in the silence of her bedroom would help.

She was halfway up the stairs when she heard Oliver call her name from below. Glancing down, she saw with mild exasperation that he was following her. ‘What is it?’ she asked as he started up the stairs. ‘I’ve got a headache.’

‘I wanted to make sure you weren’t upset by that rubbish about Rufus,’ Oliver said once he was nearer. ‘He was never in any danger of being charged, you know.’

Harry rubbed her temples wearily. It hadn’t been a lie – she did have the start of a headache and she suspected it was about to get worse. ‘But he was drunk?’

Oliver pursed his lips as he considered the question. ‘He’d probably had more than he should. But it was the others he was with who were the instigators. They tried to climb up the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus but ran for it when a policeman caught them. Rufus didn’t run fast enough, unfortunately.’

She couldn’t deny it sounded very much like her little brother. ‘He’s lucky you were able to sort everything out.’

He shook his head. ‘They knew they didn’t have enough to show the magistrate. At worst, they’d have let him sleep it off in a cell overnight.’

‘A cell!’ The thought made Harry’s stomach clench. ‘I didn’t even know he was in London. Where had he been?’

‘One of the new nightclubs in Soho,’ Oliver said. ‘But don’t beat yourself up – your brothers had no idea he was in town, either, until I turned up at Lawrence’s apartment with a very chastened Rufus in tow.’

‘That doesn’t make me feel any better,’ she said, sighing. ‘How did Lord Finchem find out? I don’t imagine he was one of the revellers.’

‘No, but Percy Finchem was in the crowd – he saw everything.’ Oliver shook his head. ‘Watch yourself around those two. They’re not quite what they pretend to be.’

If Harry’s head hadn’t been thumping, she might have asked what he meant by that but all she wanted now was the quiet of her room. ‘Well, I hope the experience scared him into behaving better. I bet Mama was livid when she found out.’

Oliver grimaced. ‘So I believe. That’s why he’s not here this weekend; she’s packed him off to your great-uncle in Scotland to contemplate his actions.’

The thought almost made Harry smile. Great-Uncle Douglas lived in a ramshackle castle in the heart of the Highlands. There was no danger of Rufus running afoul of the law there, unless he took up poaching. ‘Rather him than me,’ she said.

‘Absolutely,’ Oliver agreed, then fixed her with a direct look. ‘So what was all that about Lady Finchem’s household staff? I hope you haven’t been digging around.’

‘Of course not,’ Harry said, raising her chin. ‘Well, maybe a bit but it was worth it.’ She glanced at the empty hall below and lowered her voice. ‘Polly doesn’t work there any more. Don’t you think that’s odd?’

He frowned. ‘Maids move on all the time. I expect there’s a perfectly good explanation.’

‘Or perhaps she’s done what she went there to do,’ Harry suggested. ‘Which was to set Mildred up for the considerably more substantial Lord Robertson job.’

‘We cannot know that,’ Oliver said flatly. ‘Anyone could have planted the bracelet.’

‘But Polly is the most likely suspect,’ Harry insisted, wishing she could share what she’d learned from Beth. ‘You have to admit it’s suspicious that she’s left the Finchem household.’

Oliver gave her an impatient look. ‘No, I don’t. I hope you’re not planning to interrogate Lady Finchem about this, Harry. I thought we’d agreed to leave Mildred’s case to the police.’

She threw up her hands in frustration. ‘Can you at least tell me what’s happening, then? Have they found any evidence that she’s telling the truth?’

‘No,’ Oliver admitted. ‘Like us, they suspect an organised gang but if it is the Forty Elephants, they’ve covered their tracks well.’

Again, Harry thought of Beth’s observations about Polly’s family and their roots in South London. It couldn’t be a coincidence but, as Oliver had pointed out, there was no concrete evidence. And Polly’s disappearance made it more difficult for Harry to prove the connection. ‘So what happens next?’

‘I’m in contact with the detectives working on the case,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to wait for them to make a breakthrough. And in the meantime, I’m optimistic Mildred will give a good account of herself at trial. She’s polite, well-mannered, and of previous good character, aside from the Finchem matter. I think a jury will like her.’

The idea of poor Mildred having to explain herself in the dock made Harry shiver. ‘It can’t come to that. We have to find out the truth before then.’

‘No, Harry,’ Oliver said, his expression darkening. ‘I told you before, this isn’t something you should be involved with.’

‘Why?’ Harry exclaimed with a flash of irritation. ‘Because I’m a woman? I can look after myself, believe it or not.’

He exhaled sharply. ‘You have no idea what kind of people you’re dealing with.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ she snapped, folding her arms.

‘Then you should be,’ he whipped back. ‘Gangs like these aren’t afraid to use force to protect themselves. If you cross the wrong person, it won’t be just your job you lose. It could be your life.’

The vehemence in his voice made her pause. ‘You’re trying to scare me.’

‘Because you’re not listening!’ Running a hand through his hair, he softened his voice. ‘As I said when we left Holloway, I don’t want anything to happen to you.’

‘Because you still see me as Lawrence’s kid sister when I’m so much more now,’ she argued, but even as she spoke, Beth’s warning echoed in her head. Have a care for your safety. There are dangerous people around. ‘And I’m getting better at disguises.’

‘You need to let this go, Harry,’ Oliver said, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘You’re not R. K. Moss, or whatever made-up name you came up with, and you aren’t working for Sherlock Holmes. This isn’t a game.’

The insinuation that she was playing at detective work caused her temper to flare even more. ‘Is that why you came down here? To make sure I was being a good girl and doing as I was told?’

He sighed. ‘No, I came to see you and your family, because I like being here. Nothing more sinister than that.’

His words took the wind out of her sails. ‘Oh.’

‘I’m not trying to oppress you, Harry,’ he went on. ‘I’m trying to keep you safe.’

Deep down, she knew it was true but it didn’t make her feel any less patronised. ‘Well, I’m glad you came, even if you are being an insufferable prig.’ She eyed him reproachfully. ‘I do understand how serious this is, you know. An innocent girl’s future is at stake.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Look, I appreciate you’re trying to help and I’m very glad you brought Mildred’s situation to my attention. But it really would be best to leave things to the professionals now.’

By which he meant men, Harry thought, but there was nothing to be gained by losing her temper again. Instead, she began to climb the stairs once more. ‘I’m going for a nap. See you at dinner.’

Harry lay on her bed for what felt like an age, the conversation spinning in her head, mingling with everything she had learned so far. Oliver’s dismissiveness irked her more than anything, even though she knew it was born from concern for her wellbeing. But she had made the link to Mrs Haverford’s Bureau and she had uncovered the similarity between Mildred and Dora that was at the heart of the case, details she instinctively felt to be important. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that the police did not appear to be trying very hard – if they had made even a modicum of progress, she might have felt more confident in leaving matters to them. But there was no fresh evidence, no hope that Mildred might be proved innocent, and that meant Harry could not do as Oliver demanded. As she had told him, a young girl’s future hung in the balance and Harry could not stand by and let her take the blame.

After tossing and turning for a few more minutes, she huffily gave up on sleep. It galled her to admit it but Oliver had not been wrong about everything – she could not risk directly investigating the crime. Her family would be mortified, for a start, and their embarrassment would only be the start of Harry’s problems; she would most likely find herself banished to Scotland to keep Rufus company. But it did not follow that she could not investigate at all, however; she simply needed to be cleverer, which meant following in the footsteps of Holmes and expanding her repertoire of disguises. Luckily for her, she had an almost endless supply of costumes at her disposal.

Leaving her room and making as though she was going for a bracing walk, Harry doubled back to the barn where the sacks of old clothes were waiting to be redistributed through her grandmother’s charity. She began to sort through the clothing, her mind abuzz with possibilities. Sarah Smith needed a different coat and hat, but not fresh boots, and perhaps there were some black items she could wear when she needed to blend into the shadows. Harry contemplated a pair of men’s trousers thoughtfully; with a belt they might stay up and they were certainly more practical than skirts, although her mother would faint clean away at the mere suggestion.

Mindful of the time, Harry made her selections and arranged the sacks exactly as they had been before. The hardest thing was going to be smuggling her finds back to London without anyone noticing – Oliver, in particular, would be watching her closely and might pick up on an overstuffed bag. She would have to leave some of her own clothes behind to make room. But it was a small sacrifice if it helped to set Mildred free, and Harry was more determined than ever to do just that.

12

At dinner, Harry found herself seated between Percy and James Finchem, an arrangement so blatant in its intentions that it made her blush just to think of it. Sebastian had not fared any better – he was squeezed between Maud and Rosalind Goldsworthy. Further up the table, their mother regarded them with matriarchal satisfaction. Swallowing a curse, Harry steeled herself for the charm offensive and tried to ignore Oliver’s sympathetic smile from directly opposite. Was it a coincidence that he was sitting well within earshot of everything she might say? Surely he hadn’t sweet-talked her mother into seating him nearby?

But it turned out Harry had misjudged the entertainment value of the Finchem brothers. As dinner progressed, she found herself in equal parts charmed and amused. On her left, James took every opportunity to flirt, while on her right, Percy consistently shot his efforts down with deadly humour. They were, she decided as the exquisite main course of pheasant was served by the household staff, quite the double act.

‘You will have to excuse my brother,’ Percy said, after a particularly earnest compliment had made Harry’s cheeks grow warm. ‘He tries to make up for his terrible looks by blinding a woman with outrageous flattery.’

Harry laughed. ‘I see. So I’m not prettier than a whole garden full of roses?’

She took some satisfaction in seeing Percy hesitate, if only for a moment. ‘Even a stopped clock is right twice a day,’ he said expansively. ‘It doesn’t mean you should buy it for your mantelpiece.’

James leaned closer. ‘I’m afraid Percy was dropped on his head as a baby. He talks utter nonsense most of the time. Please accept my heartfelt apologies.’

Harry glanced back and forth between them. ‘Are you always so terrible to each other?’

Percy grinned. ‘Always. He makes it so easy.’

James reached out to top up Harry’s wine glass, an action that caused Oliver to frown. Although seemingly engrossed in conversation with Rosalind Goldsworthy, Harry had no doubt he had been following the chatter across the table and she had the distinct impression he didn’t like either of the Finchem brothers much. Whereas Harry herself was finding them quite refreshing.

‘My mother tells me you work in London,’ James said. ‘Something to do with banking.’

‘That’s right,’ Harry replied, taking a sip of wine. ‘I like to stay busy. Do you work?’

‘Only on his golfing swing,’ Percy observed. ‘But he’ll tell you he’s in the shipping business to try and impress you.’

James smiled. ‘It’s the family company, dates back to 1741. We import and export all over the world. If you’re ever in need of silk for a dress, let me know.’

‘Don’t tell my mother that,’ Harry advised. ‘She will never leave you alone.’

‘I’d be happy to help,’ James said. ‘Especially if it gives me a chance to speak to you.’

There was a snort from Percy. ‘I work in the family business too. If you want to avoid my brother’s toe-curling efforts to woo you, then take my card.’

Harry wasn’t sure whether it was the wine or the effect of being conversationally bounced between James and Percy but she found her head was spinning by the time dessert was served. After coffee, everyone began to drift towards the drawing room for brandy. There was talk of a card game but Harry excused herself and slipped through the tall double doors that led to a paved balcony overlooking the gardens. The night was blessedly cool, sending goosebumps blossoming across her skin even as she drank in the chilly air. The gardens were blanketed in darkness but she knew the view well enough to imagine the topiary hedges and fountain that sat at their heart. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, punctuating the faint clink of crockery from beyond the doors as the staff cleared the dining room table. Harry absorbed the quiet, even as the fresh air intensified the fizz of alcohol in her veins. She couldn’t stay out here for long, but perhaps it would soothe her frazzled nerves enough to rejoin the fray.

Gradually, the clinks and rattles subsided and Harry guessed the dining room was empty. She was just about to go back inside when the door creaked behind her and a figure stepped out. At first, they were silhouetted in the light and she couldn’t make out who it was. The height told her it was a man – one of her brothers, perhaps, sent to find her? But then the figure spoke and she recognised Percy Finchem’s playful tone. ‘I wondered where you’d escaped to,’ he said, pulling out a silver cigarette case and offering it to her. ‘Are you hiding from James, by any chance?’

She shook her head, both at the question and the offer to smoke. ‘Not at all. I just needed some air.’

He lit his cigarette, the flare of yellow briefly illuminating his face. He had the same brooding good looks as James, the same straight nose and strong jaw, but she now realised his eyes were blue instead of brown like his brother’s. Which of his parents had given him those? she wondered, then realised she was staring. A little flustered, she took refuge in small talk. ‘Do you spend much time in the country?’

‘Not if I can help it. I don’t mind the occasional visit, especially when the company is so captivating.’ He paused to blow out a long stream of smoke. ‘But I can’t see myself ever living in the family pile. There’s nothing to do, apart from drink, and I can do that in the city, where at least they know how to make a decent Manhattan.’

Harry couldn’t totally disagree – she had left the comforts of Abinger Hall for the bright lights of London when she was only a little over twenty-one. But unlike Percy, she could see herself returning to Abinger when she was older. Her Aunt Valeria had done exactly that after refusing to marry and she seemed perfectly happy with her horses. ‘It’s not for everyone,’ she agreed.

‘Luckily for me, I won’t inherit the old place,’ Percy went on. ‘That’s my brother’s doom and he’s welcome to it.’ He fixed her with a speculative look. ‘Have you ever been to New York? Now that’s a city.’

Harry considered the daily newspaper articles about America, where prohibition was causing all kinds of unintended consequences. ‘Not much chance of a cocktail there.’

Percy gave her a sly grin. ‘Oh, but there is. You just need to know where to go. And there’s something deliciously dangerous about a speakeasy. It makes one feel alive, knowing the door could be broken down at any moment.’

There was something in his voice that surprised Harry, a darker edge that belied his amiable exterior. She cocked her head. ‘That, and the chance that the alcohol might kill you.’

He laughed. ‘Of course. What’s the point of living if you always play it safe?’

Spoken by someone who had never had to worry where his next meal was coming from, Harry thought dryly. But she could hardly point the finger there – she’d never had to face hardship either and besides, she wasn’t sure it really mattered. You didn’t have to be wealthy to understand the thrill of danger. ‘I think there’s a time and a place for a calculated risk,’ she said, as Oliver’s insistence that she stop her investigations floated across her mind. ‘Sometimes the end justifies the means.’

‘You’re so right,’ Percy murmured and she was startled to realise how close he was. ‘I mean, aren’t you taking a risk just by being out here alone with me, under the stars?’

Her heart thudded in her chest as she met his gaze and it wasn’t only the truth of his words that made it beat faster. She could smell his cologne mingled with the smoke from his cigarette and it belatedly occurred to her that perhaps James was not the most seductive of the Finchem brothers after all. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Am I?’

For a moment, she thought he might kiss her. For a moment, she almost wanted him to. But he simply smiled. ‘Not at all, Harry. There’s nothing dangerous about me.’

She wasn’t sure whether it was the gleam of moonlight on his white teeth, or the breath of wind that blew his dark hair across his forehead, but there was something lupine about his expression then that made her shiver. ‘But you’re cold,’ he said, with sudden concern, and shrugged off his dinner jacket to drape it around her shoulders. ‘Come on, let’s get you back inside.’

After finishing his cigarette, he pulled open the door and ushered her into the dining room. Warm air embraced Harry as she made for the drawing room but before she could push the door back, it was pulled open and Oliver was there. ‘Harry,’ he said, frowning in surprise. His eyes took in the dinner jacket hanging from her shoulders and his frown deepened. ‘I was just coming to look for you.’

She was suddenly conscious of Percy’s solicitous hand on her back. ‘Here I am,’ she said. ‘No need to launch a search party.’

Oliver’s gaze narrowed a little as he glanced at Percy, who offered a nonchalant smirk. ‘Wasn’t there a mention of poker? Something tells me Fortescue here is a card sharp on the sly.’

Harry saw Oliver’s expression darken and his dourness made her tired and cross at the same time. Shrugging off Percy’s jacket, she handed it over. ‘Oliver never gambles,’ she said. ‘Goodnight, all.’

She didn’t look back as she climbed the stairs, unable to decide who she was avoiding most – Oliver and his evident disapproval, or Percy and his undisguised interest. Perhaps it was both, she decided as she closed the door to her bedroom and let out a long slow breath. For very different reasons.

Harry woke early on Sunday morning, after a restless night full of unsettling dreams. She lay still for a minute or so, listening to the birds outside her window, and then rose to throw open the curtains, gasping a little at the cold against her feet. The fire in the small hearth had been lit, so the room was not as chilly as it might have been. Making a mental note to thank Lucinda the maid for her soundless efficiency, Harry pulled on her dressing gown and returned to the window. Outside, the lawn was white with frost, sparkling in the first rays of the freshly risen sun, and Harry felt a sudden urge to feel the grass crunch beneath her feet, to watch her breath plume against the peaches-and-cream sky. It was not yet eight o’clock – she doubted any of the house guests would have risen at this hour, especially not if the threatened card games had materialised. It should be safe enough for her to venture downstairs without any danger of bumping into anyone.

She dressed quickly, rummaging in her wardrobe for jodhpurs and riding boots. The stable hands would have been up for hours, she thought, feeding the horses and mucking out. She was sure no one would object if she took one of her aunt’s horses for a crisp morning ride.

‘I recommend Duchess, Miss White,’ Caleb the stable boy said, when Harry asked which horse she might take. ‘She’s steady but enjoys a gallop if you fancy it.’

‘Perfect,’ Harry replied appreciatively. ‘Exactly what I need this morning.’

She knew as soon as they left the yard that she had chosen well. When she’d lived at the hall she’d had her own horse but Duchess was a pleasure to ride. She was a dappled grey mare of around four or five, placid but responsive when Harry urged her into a canter. It wasn’t long before they had left Abinger Hall behind and were deep into the woodlands on the western estate. Autumn was in the last of her glory – the trees wore magnificent shades of gold and russet and bronze, but many had shed their treasure onto the woodland floor to create a carpet that glimmered in the speckled morning light. Harry gave Duchess her head and marvelled at the power the horse exuded. The exhilaration of the ride, together with the rush of wind across her cheeks, combined to scour her restlessness away. Last night’s encounter with Percy in the garden felt tame by comparison and even Oliver’s po-faced disapproval had lost its power to irk her.

She returned Duchess to the stables some two hours later, refreshed in spirit and ravenously hungry, with a plan for the rest of the morning. If Oliver wouldn’t tell her what was happening with Mildred, perhaps the Longstaff family would.

Once Harry had rubbed Duchess down and thanked her for a most enjoyable ride, she went inside to wash and change. Obeying her rumbling stomach, she found Sebastian alone at the dining room table, nursing a tall glass of tomato juice and a plate of poached eggs. ‘Just the person I was looking for,’ she said cheerfully, helping herself to a thick slice of toast.

Her brother winced. ‘Not so loud, please.’

Harry eyed him sympathetically. ‘Late night?’

‘Early morning,’ he replied, grimacing. ‘Do you know, I think I was hustled by Maud Goldsworthy. The girl has a poker face that could break the bank at Monte Carlo.’

‘Oh dear.’ Harry tried not to laugh.

‘The other one wants to play me at tennis and I can only imagine she’ll win.’ Seb let out a morose sigh. ‘They’re monsters.’

‘Don’t let Mama hear you say that; she’s got high hopes for wedding bells,’ Harry said. ‘Do you mind if I borrow your car?’

Instantly, he perked up. ‘Going anywhere exciting? Give me half an hour and I’ll come with you.’

She glanced at the clock and shook her head. The last thing she wanted was a companion. ‘I’m only going to Foxley. But I’m heading there now, I’m afraid.’

Sebastian cocked his head. ‘What are you up to? Don’t tell me you’ve gone all Lady Chatterley and have a lover stashed away in the village.’

‘Of course not. It’s a lovely morning, I just feel like taking the MG for a spin, blowing the cobwebs away.’

‘You were in bed by ten – you shouldn’t have any cobwebs,’ her brother observed, subsiding back into his slumped position. ‘In point of fact, you look disgustingly well, if a little overdressed for a drive. Are you sure there isn’t a man involved?’

‘Positive,’ Harry said firmly. ‘Now, where are your keys?’

‘On the dresser in my room.’ He eyed her curiously once more. ‘There’s more to this than you’re letting on but luckily for you, I’m too hungover to pursue it.’

Thank goodness for late-night poker games, Harry thought, even as she summoned up another sympathetic smile. ‘Get Mrs Pilbeam to mix a raw egg into that Bloody Mary,’ she advised as she left the room. ‘Good luck with the match.’

It wasn’t until Harry reached Foxley that she thought to wonder whether the Longstaffs might be churchgoers. The service appeared to have ended; villagers stood in clusters in the churchyard and on the pavement outside, passing the time of day. The grass verges were all taken up with cars and Harry was obliged to circle round three times looking for somewhere to park. The MG garnered plenty of admiring looks as she drove, its cherry-red paintwork vibrant in the sunshine, and she cursed her stupidity. Why hadn’t she realised the villagers would be at church? It would only take one person to observe her walking from the car to the Longstaffs and her cover might be blown. At least she’d had the sense to wrap a scarf around her hair.

The fear of discovery was so great that, in the end, Harry parked by the side of the road three-quarters of a mile from the village. Patting the gleaming bonnet and whispering a prayer that it would still be there, undamaged, when she returned, she set off back the way she had come. The crowds had thinned by the time she reached the row of cottages where the Longstaffs lived. Pausing to compose herself, and checking right and left to make sure she was not observed, Harry knocked at the door of number 5.

It took a moment or two for Esme Longstaff to answer. As Harry waited, she couldn’t help noticing that the roses framing the door were in need of serious pruning; the flowers had long since shed their petals and rosehips hung from the too tall stems. Vicious-looking thorns drooped over the lintel, putting Harry in mind of Sleeping Beauty’s castle. If she’d had a pair of secateurs on her, she might have been tempted to do the job there and then but as she had no such tools, she simply waited.

When at last the door was opened, Esme was still wearing what Harry guessed to be her smart coat and best hat, and her expression was one of perfect surprise. ‘Miss Moss! We hardly dared hope – that is to say, my letter can barely have reached you.’

Harry cycled through her possible responses and settled on honesty, at least for that moment. ‘Your letter?’

Esme blinked, her green eyes even more puzzled. ‘Yes. I wrote to you on Thursday, begging you and Mr Holmes to intercede once more on Mildred’s behalf. Is that not why you are here?’

No doubt the letter would be waiting for her on Monday, Harry thought. ‘I’m afraid we have yet to receive it,’ she said. ‘I was simply in the area and thought to see how you were faring.’

Esme clapped her hands together. ‘Then my prayers have been answered.’ She stepped backwards. ‘Please do come in. You find us just home from the morning service but if you give me a moment, I will bring some tea.’

Harry held up her hand. ‘Don’t trouble yourself on my account. But tell me, is there a reason you wrote again – a development of which I’m not aware?’

The young woman reached for her hat pin. ‘Why don’t you wait in the living room? My parents will join you shortly and we can tell you everything.’

Left with no option, Harry did as she requested. The room was unchanged from her last visit, although the fire had burned low during the family’s absence. She added a log, stirring the embers until they flared bright, and topped it with a few lumps of coal. There were not many in the scuttle, she noticed, and made a mental note to have some sent from Abinger Hall. Once flames had begun to lick the wood, she left the hearth and perched on one of the faded sofas, listening to the creak of floorboards overhead. At last, the door opened and Mr and Mrs Longstaff came in.

They had aged in the weeks since she had last seen them, Harry observed as she greeted them. Mr Longstaff’s hair seemed greyer, his eyes more sunken. Mrs Longstaff had lost what little colour she had – her face was unnaturally pale, her skin waxen. Her mouth was pinched with worry and her eyes were surrounded by dark circles that suggested sleep had been a stranger. Harry felt a surge of compassion as she considered them and she was glad she had followed the impulse to call upon them before returning to London.

‘Have you come with news?’ Mr Longstaff’s voice was gruff with barely suppressed hope as he addressed Harry. ‘It has been some time since we heard from Mr Fortescue. Has there been a breakthrough?’

Harry wished with all her heart that she did not have to disappoint him. ‘Nothing substantial, I’m afraid. Enquiries are continuing, of course.’

Upon the sofa, Mrs Longstaff made a restless motion. ‘Enquiries. What use are they when our girl languishes in hell?’

Her husband placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘You must forgive us our impatience. We had hoped, given Mr Holmes’ famous powers of deduction, that he might have solved the case by now.’

Harry felt the hot burn of shame. Of course they would expect a speedy resolution – in the stories, Holmes knew from the speck of dirt on the toe of a boot who had committed the crime, as well as the how and the why. His superhuman intellect allowed him to leap to conclusions that amazed the more pedestrian Dr Watson, and ran rings around Scotland Yard. Not for the first time, Harry felt the heft of what she had undertaken. Detective work in real life was not like fiction at all – she had bitten off far more than she could chew and she had nothing to hide behind now, apart from the character in whose name she had come. ‘As you know, Mr Holmes is not in London, which makes his investigations somewhat slower. But please rest assured we are on the trail of the real criminals and hope to clear Mildred’s name soon.’

The door opened again, and Esme reappeared. Harry was unsurprised to see she carried a tray of tea. She waited until the girl had placed the tray on a table and took her notebook from her bag. ‘You mentioned a letter, Miss Longstaff. What was your reason for writing?’

Esme busied herself handing out the teacups. ‘It was an act of desperation,’ she said quietly.

Mr Longstaff harumphed. ‘You have been to visit Mildred just as we have, seen the dreadful place where she is being held.’ It was not a question but, even so, Harry nodded. ‘Then you understand the depth of our concern. Mildred does not belong there, among the common criminals and debtors.’

Esme’s eyes flashed at him. ‘I have told you, Papa, that not everyone sent there is guilty. Mrs Pankhurst was confined there a number of times while campaigning for the vote and I am sure no one would describe her as common, nor a criminal.’ She paused and seemed to recollect herself. ‘But you are right that it is no place for my sister. Her letters to us confirm that.’

Harry felt a quiver of interest. ‘Mildred has written to you?’

‘A number of times,’ Esme replied. ‘With each letter, she grows more despairing.’

‘May I see them?’

‘I thought you would ask,’ Esme said, and pulled a bundle of thin envelopes from her pocket. ‘They are difficult for us to read, loving Mildred as we do, but I have nevertheless pored over them. Perhaps you will understand our impatience better after reading them.’

The paper was cheap, almost translucent, and Harry had to concentrate hard to read the words scratched out in blunt pencil. In each letter, Mildred’s fear bled from every line, although it was clear she had made some effort not to worry her family. Nevertheless, she made mention of the food, which tasted of nothing, and the lack of sanitation, of the disinterest among the guards and the rats that scuttled along the corridors at night. Her reports of Oliver were favourable – it was clear she set much store in his advice – but Harry could see what Esme meant: Mildred was losing hope.

The most recent letter was postmarked Tuesday and it made Harry frown almost before she had finished the first few lines. It comprised of a single page and, unlike the others, which had evidently been composed with care, the sentences were painfully long and their meaning harder to define. They still made sense in a jumbled sort of way but Harry had to read several sections over again to understand them. You three will doubtless think that I am confused and sometimes I fear you are right, although not always completely right for as you, Esme – my heart and my conscience – well know that is not life.

Harry stirred uneasily and glanced at Esme, who was watching her. ‘Naturally, you appreciate our concern.’

Harry studied the letter again. ‘It certainly seems as though she is struggling. Are you fearful for her state of mind?’

‘Wouldn’t you be?’ Mrs Longstaff cried, clutching at the frill of her blouse.

‘Of course,’ Harry said heavily. ‘Is that why you wrote to me – to Mr Holmes? To see what we could do?’

Esme nodded. ‘In part, yes. We hoped you might visit with Mr Fortescue, set our minds at rest. Family visits are only permitted every second Wednesday but lawyers may go at almost any time.’

‘But then the woman from the Prison Reform Society came,’ Mr Longstaff interjected suddenly. ‘She was very interested in Mildred’s letters and we thought perhaps she might arrange a visit.’

‘The Prison Reform Society?’ Harry repeated, frowning. The newspapers were full of such earnest organisations, those who felt prisons should not be places of humiliation and degradation and campaigned to improve conditions. Harry’s grandmother had friends who were members but she had never heard of them making house calls. ‘How did she come to find you?’

He shrugged. ‘She read about Mildred in the papers and came to see if she could help.’

The explanation only increased Harry’s confusion. Reformers tended to focus on conditions in general rather than the experience of individual prisoners, and the newspaper reports had given few details about Mildred’s family and certainly not their address. ‘Did she give her name?’ she asked. ‘Leave a card, perhaps?’

‘She called herself Mrs Jones,’ Esme said. ‘I don’t believe she gave us her card.’

It didn’t make sense, Harry thought, perplexed. Why should a prison reformer be interested specifically in Mildred Longstaff? ‘When was this?’

‘Thursday,’ Mrs Longstaff said.

‘And she turned up out of the blue?’ Harry pressed. ‘She didn’t write to make an appointment or introduce herself?’

‘Well, yes,’ Mr Longstaff said. ‘That is to say no, she didn’t write beforehand. But we thought nothing of that – she must have other families to visit.’

Harry thought of Holloway, with its many inmates. ‘Hundreds, I should think,’ she said slowly. ‘Tell me, what did she want to know?’

‘How Mildred seemed to be doing, if she had written with any complaints,’ Mr Longstaff said. ‘That’s when we showed her Mildred’s letters. Then she asked how she came to be in prison, and we saw no reason not to tell her the truth.’

Mrs Longstaff leaned towards Harry. ‘She was particularly pleased to hear that Mildred had a lawyer. She wanted to know how Mildred came to find him and who was paying for his services.’

An unsettling suspicion was forming in the pit of Harry’s stomach. ‘What did you tell her?’

‘Again, the truth,’ Mr Longstaff answered. ‘That Mr Fortescue had seen Mildred’s case in the newspapers and had offered to represent her free of charge.’

Harry exhaled. It was exactly the explanation Oliver had said he had given. ‘Of course.’

Mrs Longstaff smiled. ‘And naturally we mentioned Mr Holmes.’

Harry almost groaned. Why hadn’t she sworn them to secrecy from the very first? ‘Ah.’

‘Not by name,’ Esme hastened to put in. ‘I assumed, since he is in retirement, that he would not want to be inundated with fresh cases. We merely mentioned that the matter was being investigated by a great detective whose identity could not be divulged.’ She eyed Harry with some uncertainty. ‘Was that wrong?’

‘Not at all.’ Harry did her best to sound reassuring. ‘Would you be able to describe Mrs Jones for me?’

Esme looked thoughtful. ‘Blonde hair, not natural but fashionably styled. Fairly well spoken and smartly dressed, although I thought her red lipstick a little misplaced.’

‘I found her very striking,’ Mr Longstaff said, which earned him a glower from his wife.

‘How old would you say she was?’ Harry asked.

‘Mid-fifties,’ Mrs Longstaff said, with some feeling. ‘Perhaps even sixty.’

Mr Longstaff opened his mouth to argue, then appeared to think better of it. ‘Do you know her?’

A picture was forming in Harry’s mind. While it was true that many women had blonde hair, whether from a bottle or from nature, and plenty wore red lipstick, even during the day, she couldn’t help recalling her interview with Mrs Haverford. Could it be coincidence? The description was inconclusive and there was always the possibility that there really was a prison reformer called Mrs Jones. Even so, Harry’s suspicions were aroused. No matter which way she turned, it appeared everything led back to Mrs Haverford. ‘I don’t believe so,’ she told Mr Longstaff.

Esme was watching her carefully. ‘But there is such a thing as the Prison Reform Society and they do plan to help Mildred. Why else would Mrs Jones come all the way from London?’

‘Why indeed?’ Harry murmured. Her frowning gaze came to rest upon Mildred’s letters. ‘That last one – may I read it again?’

Wordlessly, Esme handed it over. There was something off-kilter about it, Harry thought as she pored over the words once more, and she didn’t think it was as obvious as Mildred losing her senses. The discrepancy became more pronounced when comparing it to the previous letters but Harry couldn’t put her finger on what exactly it was that was nagging at her. After a few more minutes, she gave the letter back to Esme. ‘I’ll see if I can contact Mrs Jones,’ she said. ‘And of course Mr Fortescue and I will check on Mildred as soon as we can.’

‘Thank you,’ Esme said. ‘And thank you for taking the trouble to visit today. We appreciate your time.’

Once Harry had said goodbye to Mr and Mrs Longstaff, Esme showed her to the front door. With a backward glance as though fearful she might be overheard, she thrust Mildred’s most recent letter into Harry’s hands. ‘Seven, ten, six, nine, seven,’ she hissed.

‘Sorry?’ Harry said, unsure whether she had heard correctly.

‘The code,’ Esme whispered urgently. ‘Mildred and I used it when we were children. Apply it yourself and you’ll understand why I’m so afraid for her.’

‘Can’t you just tell me?’ Harry asked, but Esme was ushering her across the doorstep.

‘My parents don’t know the truth – it would kill them.’ Her green eyes blurred. ‘Please help my sister, Miss Moss. Time is running out.’

With that, she closed the door, leaving an astonished Harry staring at the plain black paint. She stood there for a moment, Mildred’s letter in her hand, then she turned and walked away. What were the numbers Esme had mentioned? Seven, ten, six, nine, seven. Harry repeated them over and over as she hurried to where she’d left the MG but it was only when she was safely behind the wheel that she unfurled the thin paper and began to scan the words. After several minutes had passed, she took out her notebook and began to scribble furiously.

Dear Mama and Papa, and dearest Esme,

Firstly, please believe that I am quite well and I want for nothing but I am tired. The weather continues wet but also is being sunny at times. I have often watched the floating clouds in the sky; they make me feel less like I have no hope, although the truth is found in my eyes. The clouds float outside, free everywhere. Sometimes the food is better but the porridge takes so very very much longer, but I still try to eat it so that I am not hungry but I am. When you three last visited me you were here and I try to hold on to the memory but it gets harder as more days go by.

You three will doubtless think that I am confused and sometimes I fear you are right although not always completely right for as you, Esme – my heart and my conscience – well know that is not life. But as long as I have you inside me they shall never be able to mean more to me than our dear hearts mean to us all, for nothing could ever kill what you three all mean to me but most especially, my dearest and most beloved sister Esme. I try my hardest to please you all, but there are moments I cannot help even though your endless trust in me is all I need to pray before God and I can only hope that He has it in his heart and He is merciful, as all of you three are merciful too, or it may be just too late.

Your daughter and sister,

Mildred

Harry stared at the deciphered message for another full minute. Then she started the engine of the MG, threw it into a three-point turn and drove towards Abinger Hall as though all the demons of hell pursued her.

13

Harry was somehow surprised and not surprised to find Oliver waiting for her on the steps of the hall when she drew up in the MG. Of course Seb would have blabbed about where she was going, she thought as she climbed out and crunched across the gravel. And of course Oliver would have known why. But she had the perfect defence in her notebook – the desperate message Mildred had encoded in her letter – and she intended to use it before he could attack.

‘I thought we decided you were going to stay out of this,’ Oliver growled the moment she was within earshot.

‘No, you decided that,’ Harry retorted. ‘In the meantime, I’ve been gathering some very interesting information about your client. Do you want to hear it or should I go straight to Scotland Yard?’

For a moment his scowl wavered and Harry supposed his anger at her was doing battle with his desire to do right by Mildred. In the end, he shrugged – a tight little gesture that told Harry his annoyance was only temporarily at bay. She held out Mildred’s letter. ‘Read this.’

To his credit, he didn’t argue. Once he had finished, he looked up, clearly puzzled. ‘Are you sure Mildred wrote this? It doesn’t really make any sense.’

‘That’s because you don’t have the cipher,’ she said, with some satisfaction. She held out her notebook and the message she had decrypted.

‘Esme, I am being watched,’ he read aloud. ‘They have eyes everywhere. The longer I am here, the more I fear for my life. They mean to kill me. Esme, please help me before it is too late.’ Oliver looked up at Harry, his gaze suddenly troubled. ‘When did this arrive?’

‘Last Wednesday. But that’s not all.’

Tersely, she told him about the Longstaffs’ visit from Mrs Jones. He considered the news thoughtfully. ‘There is a movement to improve conditions in prisons but they tend to write long reports and petition Parliament.’

‘Exactly,’ Harry said. ‘They don’t make house calls. I don’t think Mrs Jones was interested in prison reform at all. I think she wanted information.’

‘About Mildred?’

Harry folded her arms. ‘About you. Someone is unhappy that Mildred isn’t as helpless as she seems.’

Oliver eyed the letter again, his expression grim. ‘She’s telling us they have someone inside the prison. If that’s the case—’

‘Then Mildred’s life really is in danger,’ Harry finished. She fixed him with a meaningful stare. ‘We have to do something, Oliver.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll take this to the police. Maybe they can—’

‘We can’t leave this to the police any more,’ Harry exploded. ‘They’re too slow. By the time they work out what’s going on it could be too late.’

Oliver threw his hands up in the air. ‘So what do you suggest? We go and stake out the gang’s headquarters, bring the criminals in ourselves?’

Harry stared at him. ‘Well, why not? We know where Dora lives—’

‘No, we don’t!’ he exclaimed. ‘The police checked the house in Tea Cutter Row and found nothing.’

‘Then they didn’t look properly,’ she snapped. ‘I went there too, remember? I know what I saw.’

He opened his mouth to answer and she knew – just knew – he was going to suggest she was mistaken.

‘Don’t,’ she warned.

Oliver ran a hand through his hair. ‘Harry, we cannot do this alone. It’s too dangerous.’

She held up her notebook. ‘And it might cost Mildred her life if we don’t.’ They glared at each other for a moment, locked in a battle of wills, then Harry sighed, suddenly weary. ‘Just think about it, Oliver. That’s all I ask.’

He pressed his lips into a hard, thin line. ‘Fine, I’ll think about it. As long as you promise you won’t go tearing off to Elephant and Castle without me.’

Grudgingly, she nodded. ‘I promise.’

‘I’ll speak to the prison first thing tomorrow, arrange a visit for early evening, if you’re free?’

‘Oh, I’m free,’ Harry said, remembering the pinched anxiety on the faces of Mildred’s parents, the fear in her sister’s eyes. ‘Just tell me when.’

Oliver nodded at the message she held. ‘That’s good work, by the way. Credit where credit is due.’

As much as she hated herself for it, his praise made Harry feel warm inside. ‘I knew there was something there but I’d never have figured it out without the code,’ she said. ‘As you keep reminding me, I’m not Sherlock Holmes.’

Oliver gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Well quite,’ he said as he began to walk up the stone staircase. ‘You actually exist, for a start.’

Harry found it almost impossible to concentrate at work on Monday. Her fingers were clumsy on the typewriter keys, meaning she had to start each letter several times, and her thoughts kept returning to Mildred’s hidden message. Had Oliver been in contact with the prison yet? The telephone remained stubbornly silent, which was not unusual, but Harry’s nerves thrummed with expectation, creating the almost oppressive sense that the room was holding its breath. When Bobby knocked at her office door, mid-morning, she jumped so violently that the peace lily on her desk was sent clattering to the floor. ‘Blimey,’ Bobby said when he poked his head around the door and saw the mess. ‘You having a smashing time in here or what?’

‘Ha ha,’ she said, kneeling down to gather up the plant. ‘I knocked it over – that’s all.’

He shrugged. ‘Accidents happen.’ He placed a bundle of envelopes on her desk. ‘I reckon you’re getting on top of things now. Sherlock Holmes should have had you as his secretary when he was doing his detecting, instead of that boring doctor.’

Harry looked up, surprised. She was under the impression that Bobby wasn’t much of a reader but his comment suggested he knew a little bit about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s books. Perhaps he’d been visiting the library. ‘Dr Watson wasn’t really his secretary,’ she said, straightening up. ‘He was more of an assistant.’

‘Same thing, innit,’ Bobby said, wrinkling his nose. ‘He wrote down everything that happened. I reckon you’d be good at that too.’

She settled the lily back on the desk, patting the soil back into place. It was an extraordinary thing, the way people half believed, or in some cases fully believed, that the adventures of Holmes and Watson had been real. Even Bobby was not immune, it seemed. And yet wasn’t she embroiled in a real-life investigation of her own? The Case of the Missing Maid. Perhaps Bobby was onto something. Maybe she ought to chronicle events the way Watson had – the way the police must do now. It would not be for publication, of course, but it might help her spot something she had missed – the tiny detail that cracked the case and won Mildred her freedom. ‘Thank you, Bobby,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

The boy nodded at the bundle of envelopes beside her typewriter. ‘You’d never be short of ideas.’ He stepped back, patting the brass trolley in the doorway. ‘Anyway, I’d better get moving. This lot won’t deliver itself.’

Once she had opened the latest batch of envelopes, Harry opened the notebook she always kept in her handbag and began to skim its pages. Before long, she had a rough timeline of events, along with a list of persons and places of interest. Arrows bisected the paper, linking Mildred to the Finchems, the Finchems to Polly, Polly to Mrs Haverford, Mrs Haverford – or Mrs Jones, as Harry suspected she had called herself – to the Longstaffs. There was no doubt of the connections; Harry could sense the strands binding everything together like an invisible web. But who was behind it all? she mused as she tapped her pen on the paper. Who was the spider tugging on the silk?

When the telephone rang, Harry leapt again and almost sent the peace lily crashing for a second time. Thrusting out a hand, she caught it as it teetered on the edge of the desk and steadied it, before getting up to answer the shrill cry of the phone. No sooner had she said her name than Oliver’s voice was in her ear. ‘Harry, we’ve got trouble,’ he said, without preamble.

Her heart sank into her shoes. His tone was so grim that it could only be bad news. ‘What is it? Is there more evidence against Mildred?’

‘It’s worse than that,’ he said. ‘She’s been attacked. I don’t know how bad it is yet.’

‘Attacked!’ Harry gasped, clutching at the filing cabinet as the room lurched. ‘By who?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replied grimly. ‘Another inmate, I think, but there aren’t many details.’

‘Is she…’ Harry trailed off, unable to say the words.

‘She’s alive,’ Oliver said. ‘They’ve got her in the hospital wing and Deputy Governor Short has agreed to keep her under guard.’

‘Can we see her?’

‘Not tonight,’ Oliver said. ‘I’m hoping for tomorrow, if she’s conscious and able to talk about what happened.’

The thought of Mildred hurt and vulnerable made Harry’s stomach churn. ‘But what if they try again? She said they have eyes everywhere. What if that includes the prison authorities? What if the guards are part of the gang?’

There was a brief silence. ‘No, that can’t be the case,’ Oliver said, his tone firm. ‘Bridget Short is a very respected professional – she wouldn’t stand for that. She cares about the welfare of the inmates.’

The fact remained that Mildred had been attacked on this woman’s watch, Harry thought pensively. Her gaze came to rest on the notebook lying open on her desk, the pages scored with interconnected strands, with the shadowy spider at its heart. She’d assumed the mastermind behind the burglary must be Mrs Haverford but what if the web went deeper than she or Oliver guessed? ‘Someone tried to silence Mildred, Oliver. This can’t be a coincidence.’

‘No,’ he conceded. ‘I don’t think it can. Let’s see how she is in the morning. With a bit of luck she’ll be able to tell us who did this to her.’

Harry stood with the telephone in her hand for a long time after he had rung off, staring at nothing. Mildred’s worst fears had come true, she thought dully, and she was trapped inside a prison with someone who might want her silenced for good. Slowly, Harry replaced the receiver and went back to her desk. It was going to be a long night for them all.

Harry wasn’t sure if it was her imagination but the clouds that hung over Holloway on Tuesday afternoon were ominously dark. Thunder had rumbled during the drive from Holborn, punctuated by the occasional jagged spark of lightning, but the storm that was threatening had yet to break. Dusk was falling earlier than usual; Oliver had managed to make an appointment for three o’clock and Harry had not hesitated. She had called Mr Babbage and advised him she had an appointment with the dentist. Shortly after that, she was sitting beside Oliver and speeding through North London.

Neither of them spoke much, not when they were waiting beside the enormous wooden doors and not when they were being shown through the maze of grey corridors that led to the prison hospital wing. By the time they reached Mildred’s bedside, the journey had blurred in Harry’s memory. She hoped they were not expected to remember their way back.

Mildred was the only patient in this section of the ward and somehow managed to look paler than the bandages that swathed her head. She lay with her eyes closed as they approached, an ugly black and purple bruise peeping out on one temple. The guard stationed at her bedside stood up as Harry and Oliver approached with their escort. ‘Oliver Fortescue,’ he said, by way of introduction. ‘How’s she been?’

‘Asleep, mostly,’ the guard said. ‘No one’s been near her, apart from the doctor and the nurses.’

‘Good,’ Oliver said. ‘I’d like to consult the doctor – where is he?’

The guard pointed to an office in the furthest corner. ‘You might find him in there.’

Oliver eyed Harry. ‘Do you want to stay here, in case she wakes up? I won’t be a moment.’

Harry nodded absently, unable to take her eyes off the girl on the bed. Guilt surged through her. If only she’d done something – anything – to prevent this from happening. But what could she have done? The chain of events had been set in motion long before she’d ever heard the name Mildred Longstaff and yet she still felt she had failed the young woman. Her thoughts strayed back to another conversation she’d had with Oliver on the journey to Holloway. ‘I spoke to the Prison Reform Society,’ he’d told her. ‘You won’t be surprised to hear they don’t have a Mrs Jones working for them, and nor do they visit families at home, at least not without an appointment. The woman I spoke to sounded faintly horrified at the mere suggestion.’

He was right – it wasn’t really a surprise and yet Harry had still found it shocking. It was the brazenness that sent her reeling. It shouldn’t have – everything she had read about gangs like the Forty Elephants suggested these were people who were supremely confident in taking risks. But Harry hadn’t fully appreciated how many of its members seemed to be hiding in plain sight, unafraid of getting caught and perhaps even prepared for it. It was that boldness that had culminated in the attack on Mildred, just as the girl herself had predicted, with little apparent fear of repercussions. Harry had no doubt the gang had people on the inside of the prison. The question was who those people were.

They were dependent on Mildred for answers, Harry thought now as she gazed at the supine figure. Oliver had been given the green light to visit, which suggested Mildred had been conscious at some point, even if she was not awake now. And then Harry saw her eyelid flicker as the girl stole a glance at her. The eye closed fast but not before Harry understood her meaning: she wanted the guard to leave before she would speak.

Oliver returned with the white-coated doctor in tow. He checked Mildred’s charts, took her pulse and shone a light beneath her eyelids. At length, he gestured to a pair of chairs on the other side of the bed. ‘Her vital signs are as good as can be expected but I couldn’t say when she might wake up. I hope you’re prepared to wait.’

‘As long as it takes,’ Oliver answered as he and Harry took the empty seats. Once the doctor had gone, Harry nudged Oliver and whispered in his ear. Oliver fixed the guard with a purposeful look. ‘I’d like a moment alone with my client, if you don’t mind.’

The man looked mutinous. ‘What, now? I’m not supposed to leave her.’

Oliver smiled. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of her entitlement to confidential consultation with legal representatives.’

The guard threw Mildred a disbelieving look. ‘She’s not even awake. I don’t think she’s consulting with anyone, except maybe Mr Sandman.’ He chuckled at his own joke.

But at that moment, Mildred opened her eyes. She blinked several times. ‘Oh, Mr Fortescue,’ she said, in a voice that was little more than a hoarse whisper. ‘It’s you.’

The guard’s demeanour changed. He scowled first at Oliver and then at Mildred. ‘There you are, she’s awake,’ Oliver said. ‘Now give us some space, please. You’re not here to protect her from us.’

While clearly disgruntled, the man did as Oliver demanded, going to lurk a short distance away where he could keep his eyes upon them. Harry rose from her seat and poured water from a jug on the bedside table. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Drink this.’

Wincing, the girl sat up a little and took a sip from the glass. She lay back immediately, as though the effort exhausted her. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘Of course we came,’ Harry said, forgetting once again that she was meant to be a lowly assistant. ‘You’ve been attacked.’

Beside her, Oliver cleared his throat. ‘We learned from your sister that you feared for your life. Do you know who is responsible for hurting you?’

Mildred looked away. ‘No.’

Harry and Oliver exchanged glances. Did she genuinely not know or was she still scared about who might be listening? ‘Why don’t you tell us what happened?’ Oliver said gently.

‘I don’t remember much,’ Mildred said. ‘I was in the kitchen, helping to scrape the plates – some of us get to do that if we’ve behaved ourselves. There weren’t many people about; most of the women had gone back to their cells, and I suppose I must have been alone.’ The girl lifted a hand to touch her bandaged head. ‘I was bending down to pick up the bin when I heard footsteps but before I could turn around, there was this blinding pain in my head and everything went sort of grey.’

She trailed off, as though reliving the moment, and Harry felt for her. ‘Go on,’ Oliver encouraged. ‘You were struck on the head. Then what?’

‘I fell, I think,’ Mildred said uncertainly. ‘They were kicking me – all I could think of was getting away.’

‘How frequent were the kicks?’ Oliver asked but she did not understand the question. ‘Did it seem to you that there was one person or two?’

‘Oh, I see,’ Mildred replied. ‘One, I think. It’s hard to be sure.’

‘Of course. And the footsteps you heard, was the tread heavy, like a man’s? Or lighter, like a woman’s?’

‘Lighter, I think,’ she said, after a moment’s consideration. ‘But the kicks were heavy like a man’s.’

A strong woman, then, Harry surmised. Or a man who was light on his feet. The former seemed more likely, since a fellow inmate was suspected, although there were plenty of male prison guards. ‘And you’re sure you didn’t see the face of your attacker?’ Oliver pressed.

Mildred’s lips were bloodless, as pale as the rest of her. Her auburn hair was hidden beneath the bandages; the whiteness of her complexion only made the green of her eyes more intense. She blinked, hesitated, then closed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘There’s no need to apologise,’ Harry said. ‘You’ve been through a terrible experience. Perhaps you’ll remember more in a day or two.’

The girl did not answer, although Harry thought she caught a minute shake of her head. They waited, in case she was gathering her strength, but it became clear after a few minutes that she had fallen asleep once more. ‘Come,’ Oliver murmured. ‘We can visit again tomorrow.’

With a reluctant nod, Harry got to her feet. It was then that Mildred’s lips parted, although her eyes remained shut. ‘I hope you admired the flowers at the cottage,’ she said slowly. ‘They must be quite arresting at this time of year.’

Harry’s brow furrowed. Did she mean the cottage in Foxley? As far as she could recall there hadn’t been much in the way of flowers, just the treacherous climbing roses that threatened to behead anyone walking in and out. Perhaps there was a garden behind the house, although quite why Mildred would expect either Oliver or herself to have seen it was a mystery. ‘I’m sure it is lovely,’ Harry said kindly. ‘Try to get some rest.’

Mildred’s fingers twitched against the white bedlinen as though she was fighting to stay awake. ‘Arresting,’ she whispered feebly. ‘The flowers…’

Oliver shook his head. ‘That blow to her head must have shaken her more than we realised.’

But Harry wasn’t really listening. She was watching the approach of two guards, who stopped to briefly confer with the man who had been guarding Mildred. He gestured towards the bed and the new guards approached Oliver and Harry. ‘Deputy Governor Short would like a word before you leave,’ one said, unsmiling.

A stab of unease needled Harry’s insides. ‘Why?’

The guard turned a dead-eyed stare her way. ‘Because she’s in charge here and what she says goes.’

‘Of course,’ Oliver said smoothly. ‘It will be our pleasure. Lead on.’

The deputy governor’s office was up two flights of curving stone steps in one of the prison’s peculiarly Gothic turrets. Harry half expected it to be cold – the rest of the prison had a dank chill to the air – but the room was warm, almost cosy. A fire burned in the small grate and thick rugs covered the floor. The deputy governor herself was seated in an armchair facing the flames. She stood as they entered and turned to face them.

Harry wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting – a figure of some stature, perhaps, like most of the guards she had encountered during her time in Holloway. But the woman before her now was small, almost birdlike. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a neat bun and she wore round, black-rimmed glasses that put Harry in mind of a librarian. A neat, cream blouse sat beneath a grey pinstripe jacket, which matched her skirt. She looked like the kind of fussy spinster to be found between the pages of an Agatha Christie novel, Harry thought. She did not look like she should be in charge of a terrifying women’s prison but Harry was well aware appearances could be deceiving.

‘Oliver Fortescue, have you grown since I last saw you?’ she said, her voice warmed by a soft Irish burr, but it was the words themselves that caused Harry to swallow a sudden, wildly inappropriate snort of laughter. This was not at all what she had been expecting.

‘I don’t think so, Bridget,’ he said, stepping forward to embrace her. ‘How are you?’

‘Tolerable,’ she said, then turned a bright-eyed gaze to Harry. ‘And who is this? A new clerk?’

Oliver hesitated. ‘A temporary assistant,’ he said, his tone dismissive.

Harry wasn’t surprised he hadn’t introduced her. He had been careful to smudge her name while signing in on both their visits and she guessed he was protecting them both, in case anyone asked questions.

Bridget cast a quick, curious eye over Harry but if she thought it strange that Oliver hadn’t given her name, she did not say so. Instead, she waved them to the chairs beside the fire. Oliver declined, saying he preferred to stand, but Harry took the seat opposite Bridget and warmed her hands in the heat from the fire. ‘So you’ve been to see Mildred Longstaff,’ Bridget said, but it was more of a statement than a question. ‘How is she?’

‘Awake,’ Oliver said. ‘Slipping in and out of lucidity, however. I’m afraid we didn’t learn much.’

Bridget shook her head. ‘A bad business. Conditions here are improving every day. We’re introducing sports and handicrafts to keep the women busy but there’s always a few bad apples.’ She eyed Oliver shrewdly. ‘She wasn’t able to identify her attacker, then?’

‘No,’ Oliver said. ‘I’m hopeful she might remember more in the days that follow.’

Harry let her gaze drift around the room. An oil painting hung above the fireplace – a rather fine still life that she decided was probably worth a significant amount of money. Bookshelves lined one wall. Photographs adorned another, mostly group shots of women who were clearly also prisoners, dressed in sporting outfits and standing together as teams. That wasn’t a surprise, Harry thought as she considered the pictures. Hadn’t Bridget said the prison had introduced sport as a way to keep the inmates occupied? ‘Do you have a football team?’ she asked suddenly, interrupting Oliver mid-flow.

Bridget blinked at the incongruity, then nodded. ‘Quite a successful one, as it happens. Why do you ask?’

‘I was just admiring your photographs,’ Harry said, but her mind was whirring. Mildred had mentioned her attacker had light footsteps but a strong kick. Did that suggest a footballer?

‘That’s the current team in the centre,’ Bridget said, as Harry stood up to take a closer look. ‘They’ve won a trophy or two.’

Harry studied it thoughtfully, taking in the set expressions and proud tilt of the women’s heads. Mildred had been too afraid to reveal much about her attacker but what if she had tried to give clues? The football hint was one – what else had she said? Nothing of any note. The flowers had been an arresting sight, which was an odd way to put it but she’d begun to ramble towards the end. Except – Harry almost snapped her fingers – what if she hadn’t been rambling? What if she had been speaking in code? ‘Tell me,’ she said casually, even though her heart was suddenly racing. ‘Are any of your players called Rose?’

Bridget’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact that’s our goalkeeper’s name. Rose Blackburn. She’s very good.’

‘I’m sure she is,’ Harry replied. ‘I imagine she has a good strong kick, too.’

‘She does,’ Bridget agreed, then frowned and appeared to recollect herself. ‘But as pleasant as this is, I didn’t invite you here to discuss our football team. Oliver, I want you to know that I’m taking this matter extremely seriously. If you learn anything from Mildred, you must bring it straight to me. Do you understand?’

Oliver nodded. ‘Of course, Bridget. I’m still hopeful I can clear Mildred’s name.’

Harry watched the older woman carefully. Was it strange that she insisted Oliver bring the name of Mildred’s attacker to her instead of the police? It was hard to tell. ‘I know you will,’ Bridget said. ‘Having talked to the girl myself, I find it hard to believe she’s anything more than an innocent caught up in someone else’s crime but of course we must all follow the evidence.’

Her gaze strayed to Harry then, still beside the framed photographs, and seemed to linger on her with cool interest. Harry returned her gaze with inquisitiveness of her own. Was Bridget Short a kindly professional who simply wanted the best for the women under her care? she wondered. Or was there a cold heart lurking beneath her spinsterish appearance?

‘Thank you for your time, Bridget,’ Oliver said. ‘I’ll be sure to let you know if we uncover anything.’

‘Give my regards to your parents,’ Bridget replied. She turned a shrewd gaze upon Harry. ‘And it was a pleasure to meet you, Miss—’

‘Wilson,’ Harry said, without missing a beat. ‘Good to meet you too.’

Harry didn’t speak until they were outside the vast door of the prison. Dusk had turned to night while they had been inside, shrouding the turrets and crenellations in heavy black shadow. She glanced up and shivered. ‘Mildred is not safe in there.’

Oliver bowed his head. ‘I know.’

‘At least she told us who did this to her,’ Harry went on. ‘I’d bet my inheritance that Rose Blackburn is connected to Dora and Mrs Haverford.’

He frowned. ‘Who is Rose Blackburn? Not the goalkeeper Bridget mentioned?’

‘Exactly her,’ Harry said with satisfaction. ‘Don’t you see? Mildred told us her name without seeming to. Even from a hospital bed, she’s a smart girl.’

‘I don’t follow,’ Oliver said, firing a confused look her way.

Harry shook her head impatiently. ‘First of all, she said her assailant had a strong kick. And then she mentioned how arresting the flowers were at her parents’ house. I thought her mind was wandering but she was actually giving us the second clue.’ She smiled at him. ‘The only things I noticed growing when I visited the Longstaffs were the roses around the front door. And that’s what Mildred was counting on, along with the odd use of the word arresting.’

Oliver considered this. ‘You might be right. I can certainly look into this Blackburn woman, find out what she was put away for.’

‘You can,’ Harry agreed. ‘But that doesn’t help Mildred now – her life is hanging in the balance. She said her enemies have eyes everywhere and that means we can’t trust anyone. Not even your friend the deputy governor.’

He opened his mouth to speak but Harry held up a hand. ‘I mean it, Oliver. The only person I trust right now is you. Next time, they might kill Mildred. I’m done waiting for the authorities to do their jobs. It’s time we took matters into our own hands and solved this case once and for all.’

‘Harry—’

‘No!’ she snapped, rounding on him. ‘The answer has been staring us in the face for weeks. We don’t need to catch the entire gang; we only need to find the girl, Dora, and confront her with everything we know.’

Oliver growled in frustration. ‘This isn’t a crime novel, Harry. If Dora is truly a hardened criminal then she’ll laugh in our faces and I can’t say I’d blame her.’

Harry folded her arms. ‘Then we bring her in ourselves. Let the police deal with her.’

He stared at her, ashen-faced. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I am,’ she insisted. ‘And if you won’t come with me, I’ll go to Tea Cutter Row on my own and wait all night if I have to.’ Harry took a deep uneven breath and met his incredulous gaze. ‘This ends tonight, Oliver. Are you with me or not?’

There was a long silence. Then Oliver groaned. ‘I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.’

‘We have to do it before it’s too late,’ Harry urged. ‘There’s no other way we can prove Mildred’s innocence in time.’

He ran a hand across his face. ‘Fine. If we have to. So what’s the plan – we turn up there and knock on the front door, demand to speak to Dora?’

‘Of course not – that would be suicide,’ Harry snorted. ‘We’ll go in disguise.’

‘Disguise?’ he repeated, his jaw dropping a little. ‘What kind of disguise?’

‘I’ll leave that up to you,’ Harry said. She began to walk towards his car. ‘Just make sure it’s convincing – something that blends in. We’ll meet outside Elephant and Castle station at eight o’clock; that should give us enough time to get home and change.’

Oliver followed, shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this.’

Harry felt something similar, although her disbelief mostly stemmed from the fact that he’d finally agreed to act. She smiled at him, feeling the blood sing in her veins. ‘I know. Exciting, isn’t it?’

14

The trousers took some getting used to, Harry decided as she loitered near the entrance of Elephant and Castle Underground station. It wasn’t that they were uncomfortable, exactly, more that the material felt strange swishing around her legs, but she had to admit they were practical. More to the point, they gave her a degree of anonymity she had never experienced before, not even when she was dressed as Sarah Smith. No one had given her a second look on the Underground, although several people had moved downwind of her. No one had called out to her as she walked, or told her to smile beneath her flat cap – she felt entirely disregarded and the freedom thrilled her. Dressing as a man was a revelation, she concluded with a considerable thrill of satisfaction. She might have to do it more often.

She spotted Oliver the moment he left the station. It wasn’t that his disguise was no good – he had kept things simple with a pair of dark trousers and a scruffy tweed jacket that had definitely seen better days, and he wore a flat cap that was not dissimilar to her own. But she had spent so much time watching him over the years that she thought she would probably recognise him anywhere. She did not think he had noticed her, however, so she sidled up to him and rattled the old tin cup she held. ‘Spare some change, guvnor,’ she said in a gruff, guttural tone.

‘Not now,’ Oliver said, barely glancing at her. He scanned the busy junction, eyes narrowed.

Harry rattled the cup again. ‘A fancy gent like you can spare a coin or two. Come on, have an ’eart.’

Irritated, Oliver did look down then and his reaction almost made Harry laugh out loud. ‘It’s you!’ he said, gaping at her. ‘But who – what—’ He took a deep breath and got hold of himself. ‘What on earth are you wearing?’

‘It’s my disguise. Do you like it?’

He opened his mouth once or twice. ‘It’s certainly effective. I’m not sure your own mother would recognise you.’

Harry grinned. ‘I sincerely hope not. Didn’t I tell you I was getting better?’

‘You did,’ Oliver said and the look he gave her was almost admiring. ‘I’m starting to think I’ve underestimated you in many different ways.’

In other circumstances, the words might have made her heart skip with a mixture of pride and something else she didn’t want to examine too deeply, but she was acutely aware of where they were and what they were about to do. ‘Drop a coin in my cup,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Then cross the street and walk down London Road. Turn left into Garden Row and wait by the pub there. I’ll meet you shortly.’

She knew he must have questions but he refrained from voicing them. Instead, he rummaged in a pocket and tossed a penny into the tin mug. ‘Now be off with you,’ he said loudly, before striding away. Harry picked out the coin and tested it with her artfully blackened teeth, fighting the urge to grin. Oliver might have resisted coming here tonight with all his might but she had to admit he was learning fast.

She waited ten minutes, approaching one or two strangers as they left the station and earning a few coins for her trouble. Eventually, she took herself in the direction Oliver had taken and found him lurking near the Albert Arms public house. ‘What took you so long?’ he asked irritably.

She shrugged. ‘This is enemy territory. I wanted to make sure we weren’t being watched.’

He sighed. ‘So where is Tea Cutter Row?’

‘That way,’ Harry said. ‘But first, we need to get a drink.’

‘Are you mad?’ Oliver said, staring first at Harry, then at the pub. ‘I’m all in favour of a bit of Dutch courage but we’ll never get out alive.’

Harry shook her head. ‘I’ve done this before. We go in, we order a pint of mild each, and we listen to what’s being said.’ She shook her mug, causing the coins to rattle. ‘Don’t worry, I’m buying.’

The beer did not smell any more inviting than the last time Harry had held a pint but she forced herself to drink it as she eavesdropped on the conversations around her. For the most part, there was nothing in particular of note – a man called Victor had lost his job and was drowning his sorrows. Another had argued with his wife and had come to the pub to escape her sharp tongue. Voices were often raised and the language was colourful. In the darker corners, shady business was undoubtedly being conducted but if Harry’s last meeting with Beth had taught her anything, it was that her disguises had limits. The last thing she and Oliver needed was to get caught up in something that had no bearing on Mildred’s innocence. Instead, Harry kept her mouth shut and watched the door, hoping the girl called Dora might appear, but at length, she nudged Oliver. ‘Time to go,’ she said. ‘Bring your glass.’

The air was cool after the fug of the bar. Slipping her arm through Oliver’s, Harry raised her half-empty glass and began to weave along the pavement. Oliver caught on quickly and matched her movements. Together, they staggered onwards, looking for all the world like a pair of drunks weaving their way unsteadily home. Tea Cutter Row did not look any more inviting under cover of darkness. As they approached it, Harry tugged at Oliver’s shoulder so she could whisper in his ear. ‘We’ll walk to the end of the street first. There’s an abandoned house opposite number 25 that we can double back to, as long as no one spots us.’ She squinted along the narrow road with some anxiety. ‘Or at least there was.’

Her heart began to thud as they neared the house where she’d confronted Dora. But all seemed quiet. A faint light shone in one of the ground-floor windows, suggesting someone was in there, but she did not get the sense they were being watched. And then she noticed the number was missing from the flaking front door. ‘That’s odd,’ she murmured to Oliver, without slowing their unsteady pace. ‘The number is gone.’

‘No, it hasn’t,’ Oliver replied. He nodded at the house next door. ‘There it is. Number 25.’

Frowning, Harry followed the direction of his gaze. Sure enough, the house beside the one she had followed Dora to bore a scratched and dirty two and five. ‘But that’s not—’ she began and realised in a flash what had happened. ‘They switched the numbers! When I came here last number 25 was the house next door. They must have changed it so the family there weren’t lying when they claimed they’d been there for years. No wonder the police didn’t find anything Mildred claimed they would. They went to the wrong house.’

‘But they’d have checked,’ Oliver objected doubtfully. ‘Wouldn’t they?’

‘Would they, though?’ Harry said. ‘No, don’t stop. Let’s cross the road; we need to get out of sight.’ She scanned the houses opposite and let out a sigh of relief – the abandoned squat still appeared to be empty. Zigzagging across the road, she and Oliver lurched inside and Harry forced herself to ignore the indignant screeches of the rats as they scattered. She let go of Oliver’s arm and placed her beer on the floor. ‘Would the police have counted the houses? I know I wouldn’t.’

Oliver nodded. ‘You’re right. I bet they took it at face value that the house bearing the number 25 was actually the one they wanted. How simple.’

‘Simple but brilliant,’ Harry said grudgingly. She peered out of the shattered window. ‘There’s a light on, anyway. Somebody is home.’

Removing his cap, Oliver scratched his head. ‘So now what?’

Harry settled into a crouch by the window. ‘Now we wait.’

It was cold and uncomfortable and the stench of decay and mould made her want to gag. It must have been a shock to Mildred’s system to come here after the grandeur of the Finchem house, or even after her parents’ home in Foxley. It wasn’t just the dirt or the neglect that troubled Harry; perhaps it was just a fancy but beneath the rotting leaves and rubbish she thought she detected an air of hopelessness about Tea Cutter Row. ‘Do you ever wonder what it would be like to live somewhere like this?’ she asked Oliver quietly, after they had been there for around an hour.

‘I’m trying not to,’ he said gravely. ‘I think something hairy just crawled up my trouser leg.’

Harry shuddered. ‘That’s not what I meant. Can you imagine what it’s like to grow up in a place like this? Without heating or hot water or money for food?’

There was a brief silence. ‘It’s no accident that many of the criminals I see in the courts come from deprived areas. It’s easy to do the right thing if you’ve never had to worry about where your next meal is coming from.’

She couldn’t argue with that. But her grandmother’s charity work had shown her it was possible to give hope and opportunities to communities like these. Oliver expected Dora to react to their approach like a hardened criminal but perhaps there was a small chance she might see the error of her ways if Harry explained how desperate Mildred’s situation was. Only time would tell.

They waited mostly in silence, moving only to shoo a rat or restore blood flow to numbed limbs. If Harry hadn’t been wearing a watch, she might have guessed it was the small hours of the morning when Dora eventually appeared. But a quick glance at the dial told her it was just before eleven o’clock when the girl’s slight figure came into view at the end of the street. ‘Oliver,’ she whispered and felt him stir beside her. ‘There she is!’

‘Are you sure it’s her?’

Harry watched the figure move along the street. It was impossible to make out much detail but she thought whoever it was had the right height and build. ‘I suppose there’s only one way to find out.’

‘She’ll run,’ Oliver predicted, straightening up.

‘Then we’d better hope we can keep up with her,’ Harry said. ‘Ready?’

She sensed rather than saw him nod. ‘Ready.’

The figure was almost at number 25 when Harry and Oliver burst out of the empty house and charged towards her. ‘Dora! We want a word with you,’ Harry challenged gruffly. ‘Or should I call you Mildred Longstaff?’

For a second the girl froze, her face a mask of startled indecision. Then she was off, darting like a hare for the safety of number 25. But Oliver was faster. He reached out a hand to intercept her. She danced past him into the middle of the street and paused to bare her teeth. ‘Who are you?’

Harry held up both hands. ‘We don’t want any trouble. In fact, we want to help you. All you have to do is tell us what you know about the Lord Robertson burglary.’

Dora stared at her. ‘You’ve come to the wrong place if you don’t want no trouble.’ She glanced at the window of the house. ‘You’re already in it, up to your necks.’

‘It’s you who’s in trouble, Dora,’ Oliver said. ‘We know you brought Mildred here when she lost her job with Lady Finchem. And we know you took her place at Lord Robertson’s on the night of the burglary.’

The girl laughed. ‘Have you two just got out of the loony bin or something? I’ve got no idea what you’re on about.’

Harry narrowed her gaze. ‘I think you do. And I’m sure Mildred would be able to pick you out of a police line-up as the person who set her up.’

‘Mildred?’ Dora snarled, suddenly ferocious. ‘She ain’t going to be picking nothing. Not long for this world, from what I hear. Such a shame but like they always say, if you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime!’

With a sudden lunge, she tossed the bag she held at Oliver, who caught it with a grunt of surprise. Then she was running, dodging between Harry and Oliver and speeding back the way she had come. ‘After her!’ Harry roared, cursing the weight of the misshapen boots that were part of her disguise. What she wouldn’t give for her white tennis shoes, she thought as she panted after Dora, trying to keep her in sight. Oliver sped past her. ‘Stay with her,’ Harry called. ‘I’m right behind you.’

The girl was swift, and she had the advantage of knowing the streets. She led them on a torrid race, dodging left and right down alleyways and cut-throughs, twisting down shadowy side streets in an effort to shake them off. Harry thought her lungs might explode with the effort of keeping pace but she stuck at the task with breathless determination. Sweat dripped down her face as they tore past the Albert Arms. It was closing time – clusters of burly men stood on the street, clapping each other on the back as they said goodnight.

‘George! Sammy! Help me!’ Dora cried over her shoulder, and Harry glanced back to see a pair of bulky figures detach themselves from the crowd.

‘What’s going on, Dora?’ a deep voice called.

‘Debt collectors,’ she cried and the crowd let out an ugly rumble. A second later, the noise erupted into a roar and it seemed as though the whole company was thundering after them. Oliver looked over his shoulder with grim resignation. ‘You stay with Dora. I’ll keep them busy.’

Harry stared at him. ‘You can’t fight them all – they’ll kill you!’

Oliver grimaced. ‘They’ll have to catch me first.’

He peeled off to the left and the crowd howled in response. The thunder of feet on the street lessened but Harry knew she was still being pursued. Sucking in as much oxygen as she could, she redoubled her efforts to reach Dora. Soon the girl would be at the Elephant and Castle junction, with many different roads to choose from and the possibility of leaping aboard a bus or tram. Harry had to keep her in sight until then.

Thankfully, the men behind her had the disadvantage of having spent the evening drinking; when Harry dared a look back, she saw only a few were still chasing her. She could only hope Oliver had been so lucky. Dora seemed to be slowing too – the distance between her and Harry was shortening. But even so, Harry knew she would not catch her before the bright lights of Elephant and Castle came into view and, sure enough, Dora reached the junction well ahead of Harry. She glanced back, caught sight of her pursuer, and danced desperately out into the traffic. Horns blared and brakes screamed but miraculously Dora was not hit.

A tram rolled past, temporarily blocking Harry’s view. Cursing loudly, she hopped up and down on the spot until she could dodge around the end. It took her a moment to locate Dora once more – the girl was faster than Harry could believe. Praying that the vehicles surrounding her would be able to stop, she followed, taking as direct a route as she dared and ignoring the furious cacophony she left in her wake.

Ahead, Dora dodged around a corner, disappearing from view for several long seconds. When she reappeared, Harry guessed she was making for the railway arches on the far side of the junction. She had only given the area a cursory glance while she was waiting for Oliver, not wanting to miss him if he had arrived early, but suspected it must be a rabbit warren of dingy alleyways and places to hide. Forcing her legs to move faster, Harry ran as quickly as she could. If she lost Dora now, she might never find her again.

But luck was on Harry’s side – it appeared Dora was winded. Next to the towering bridge that carried the railway over the streets, the girl paused to look back, clutching at her side. Harry used a bus as cover, hiding behind its bulk as it trundled by and darting into the shadows at the edge of the road to creep nearer to Dora. The girl was still scanning the traffic, catching her breath but ready to fly at a moment’s notice. Even so, she didn’t see Harry until it was almost too late but, right at the very last second, she caught sight of her and took off beneath the arches. Muttering another curse, Harry made chase.

There were no street lamps here. Harry slowed her pursuit, her sense of self-preservation suddenly screaming. The road was gravelly underfoot, littered with holes that would turn an ankle in a second. Beyond the uneven, narrow road, the arches were dark and shadowy, pitch-black in places. In some, fires burned, roaring from metal bins and surrounded by hollow-cheeked men Harry was certain she did not want to meet. Not for the first time that evening, she was glad of her disguise; the trousers had been easy to run in and her overall appearance meant she should go untroubled by those lurking in the shadows.

Peering ahead, she tried to pick out Dora but saw nothing. If the girl had any sense, she would have gone to ground, burrowing into one of the arches or alleyways until Harry gave up. Breath pluming, Harry tried to second-guess where the girl would hide; she couldn’t be too far away. She crept forwards, eyes straining against the darkness, ears pricked for the slightest sound above the rumble of traffic from the junction. Rounding a corner, she found herself in a dead end. Sheets of corrugated iron leaned against wire fencing that stretched far too high for Dora to have climbed. Harry gazed around in frustration, fighting a rising sense of panic. Where was the blasted girl hiding?

And then she caught a blur of movement from the edge of one eye – a sheet of metal flying through the air and a shape bursting towards her. Before she could move, Dora barrelled into her, hammering the air from her lungs as she bore her to the ground.

For a moment, Harry saw stars. Her head rang from its impact on the dirt and her lungs would not work. She fought desperately to breathe, winded by the brutal collision. A whining rasp escaped her. Black and white dots bloomed before her eyes and she thought she might faint. Then her locked muscles relented and air whooshed into her chest again. She croaked in a breath, blinking in pain as her vision cleared. The dead end swarmed into view again.

Dora was on her in a second, fists and feet lashing out. Purely on instinct, Harry rolled left and stumbled agonisingly to her feet. Her ribs hurt. Her head ached. There was a trickle of something she suspected was blood on her chin. And her cap was on the ground, along with the brown scarf she had tied around her hair. Dora stopped, staring at her in amused disbelief. ‘What have we here? If it isn’t Little Miss Perfect, getting in my way again.’

Harry blew out a breath, willing her ringing head to clear. ‘Give yourself up, Dora. There’s nowhere to run.’

The girl laughed. ‘You got me cornered all right. I hope you know how to fight.’

Harry squinted at her opponent. She would fight dirty, that was for sure, but Harry anticipated she would underestimate her. It might give her an advantage, although it would be a slender one at best. Raising her chin, she pushed the sleeves of her threadbare jacket up her arms. ‘I grew up with three brothers,’ she said, shifting her weight to her toes. ‘I’m no stranger to fighting.’

‘Better hope they taught you well,’ Dora snarled. ‘I’m going to grind you into dust otherwise.’

She lunged forward but Harry was ready for her this time. Dancing aside, she thrust out a fist and let out a cry of triumph when it connected with the side of Dora’s head. The girl stumbled but stayed on her feet, wheeling round to wrap her arms around Harry’s waist. Once again, Harry anticipated her move. She spun out of reach and snatched up a handful of dirt, which she threw into Dora’s face. The girl retched and coughed, clutching at her eyes. Harry did not wait for her to recover. Tearing across the yard, she hauled the sheet of iron into the air and launched it at her opponent. Crying out, Dora crumpled into a heap.

Warily, Harry circled just out of reach. She had been fooled by this move before; in the past, Seb had been known to feign injury before sweeping Harry’s feet from under her. Sure enough, Dora waited until she judged Harry was near enough before kicking out. ‘So predictable,’ Harry said as she skipped backwards. ‘Haven’t you got anything else?’

‘I got plenty,’ the girl snarled. Thrusting one hand into a pocket, she pulled out something dark and small. Harry heard a sharp click and saw a silvery glint. A knife, she thought, and her blood ran cold. She’d never faced a weapon before. She would have to concentrate.

Grinning, Dora swiped at her. ‘Scared, are ya?’

Harry shook her head. ‘We don’t have to do this, Dora. Even now, it’s not too late. Hand yourself in and we can help you.’

The blade glinted again. ‘I don’t need your help, Miss Goody-Goody. I was doing fine before you started getting in my way.’ Dora lunged forwards, swiping wildly and missing Harry’s cheek by inches. Harry gasped as it whistled past. Next time she might not be so lucky.

‘We know you’re not working alone,’ she called, watching the girl’s movements intently. If she timed it right, she might knock the knife out of her hand.

‘Of course I’m not,’ Dora sneered. ‘We’ve got people everywhere. You’ve got no idea what you’ve stumbled into.’

She leapt again, slashing viciously, but this time Harry anticipated the attack. Stepping aside, she brought her own hand down in a sharp chopping motion, connecting with Dora’s forearm with a hefty crack. ‘Aaargh!’ Dora bellowed as the knife tumbled from her nerveless fingers. Before she lost momentum, Harry whirled around and stuck out a boot to trip her. Dora hit the ground with a painful-sounding thud.

‘Last chance,’ Harry offered as she kicked the knife into the shadows. ‘Give up now, before one of us gets really hurt.’

The offer only seemed to infuriate Dora more. With a howl of incoherent rage, she got to her feet and charged towards Harry. Poised on the balls of her feet, Harry waited until the very last second to dart aside. Unable to stop, Dora’s roar became a scream as her own momentum carried her hard into the metal sheets that lined the fence. Her cry stopped abruptly as she made contact and collapsed. Corrugated iron clattered all around her, raising the kind of cacophony that would only attract more attention.

Panting, Harry waited, watching Dora for any movement even as she kept one eye trained on the blackness beyond the clearing. The girl lay still. Cautiously, Harry edged forward. Playing dead was one of Lawrence’s old tricks, although she fervently hoped he had grown out of it now. But Dora did not reach out to wrestle her to the ground. She did not move at all. Harry held a hand in front of the girl’s face, relieved to feel the steady warmth of her breath. With luck, she would not be badly hurt, although she would have an almighty headache when she woke up.

Slowly, wincing at the sudden onslaught of a hundred aches and pains, Harry glanced warily around. Still no one came. Retracing her steps to the entrance of the dead end, she bent to retrieve her hat and scarf. The hat went back on her head but she used the scarf to tie Dora’s hands together, testing the reef knot to make sure it was tight enough to secure the girl but not so tight that it would stop the flow of blood to her fingers. Once she was satisfied, Harry sat back on her haunches, wondering what to do next. If she left Dora here, she could probably find a policeman but she was loath to leave the girl unprotected somewhere so dangerous. No one had come to investigate the sounds of fighting but that did not mean they hadn’t been heard.

But a few minutes later, the dilemma was solved for her: the thunder of running feet on the road outside was followed by the desperate sound of Oliver’s voice. ‘Harry! Harry, where are you?’

With a weary glance at the unconscious Dora, Harry limped out of the yard. ‘I’m here.’

A shadowy figure at the end of the alleyway came hurrying towards her and Harry was relieved to see it was Oliver. He took one look at her appearance, swore loudly and pulled her into a deep hug. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

Trying to ignore the protests of her bruised ribs, Harry allowed herself a brief smile. ‘And I thought I’d lost you. How did you escape?’

‘Ah, they were all drunk,’ Oliver said, stepping back and releasing her. ‘But you’re hurt.’

She shook her head, and immediately wished she hadn’t. ‘Just cuts and bruises.’

Frowning, he reached out to gently tilt her face to the light. ‘You’re going to have a lovely black eye tomorrow.’

Gingerly, she reached up to feel the skin around her eye socket. It had already started to swell. ‘Could have been worse,’ she said, remembering how close the knife had been.

Oliver shook his head. ‘And Dora? Don’t tell me she got away.’

At that, Harry managed a weak smile. ‘Of course not. Follow me.’

He did as she demanded, eyes widening as he took in Dora’s crumpled form. Once he had satisfied himself that Dora did not appear to be seriously hurt, Oliver gazed at Harry with a troubled expression. ‘So now what do we do?’

‘Hand her over to the police,’ Harry said, puffing out a long breath. ‘It’s the best way to help Mildred.’

‘Yes,’ Oliver said patiently. ‘But how do we do that?’ He adopted a singsong voice. ‘Oh, excuse me, Officer, here’s a criminal who is wanted in connection with a burglary that I just happened to find?’

Harry stared at him. ‘Why not?’

Oliver huffed impatiently. ‘Because you are not supposed to be here, Harry. You are the granddaughter of a baron – you have a reputation to protect, not to mention a job that would take a dim view of you getting involved in street fights with gangsters.’ He paused to glare at Dora. ‘And so do I, as a matter of fact.’

He had a point, Harry supposed, but it was too late to back off now. ‘Don’t you have contacts?’ she asked, throwing her hands in the air. ‘Those pals at Vine Street or wherever who help you out every now and then?’

He shook his head. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we are not in Mayfair. Things work a bit differently around here.’

‘Call in Scotland Yard, then,’ Harry said, thoroughly exasperated. ‘Isn’t there a real-life Inspector Lestrade who would love to take the credit for clearing up a notorious burglary and nabbing the real culprits?’

Oliver opened his mouth to argue then paused, looking thoughtful. ‘Actually, you might be onto something there. Not Inspector Lestrade but there is someone who might be able to help.’ He fixed Harry with a determined stare. ‘But you cannot be here. I’m going to insist on this, Harry – it’s time for you to go home.’

She thought about refusing. Now that the chase was over, she wanted to stay and see Dora taken into custody. Only then would she believe they had prevailed. But Oliver was right – it was not prudent for her to stay. Her presence could not be easily explained, especially not dressed the way she was. ‘Promise you will tell me everything the moment you are able,’ she said, with extreme reluctance.

‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘If you’ll promise you will go straight home.’

Grimacing, Harry rolled her shoulders. ‘Believe me, I’m not going anywhere else. There’s a bath with my name on it.’

He shook his head again but she thought there was a touch of admiration in the way he looked at her. ‘Put some cream on that bruise. I don’t know what your mother is going to say when she sees it.’

Harry pulled the flat cap down to cover her hair once more and began to limp towards the bright lights of Elephant and Castle. ‘We’ll just have to make sure she doesn’t, then. Won’t we?’

15

ROBERTSON BURGLARY ARREST

Police Raids in Elephant and Castle

Original Suspect Released

The newspaper sellers were enthusiastic about the headlines that had developed overnight; Harry could hear them bellowing from her apartment. She had planned to wake up early to buy a copy of The Times and find out exactly what Oliver and his contact at Scotland Yard had cooked up, but her weary body had other ideas. When she did finally wake up, it took her twice as long as usual to do her make-up and she still suspected her black eye would give the game away. She certainly received a few curious looks as she hurried along Baker Street, trying to read the paper at the same time as buttoning up her coat.

Danny the doorman tutted as she dashed up the steps to the bank. ‘Four minutes to spare, Miss White,’ he said, then did a double take. ‘Strike a light! You been in the ring or something?’

Harry did not stop. ‘I walked into the cupboard door,’ she said blithely. ‘So clumsy of me.’

She kept her head down as she crossed the marbled lobby of the bank and it wasn’t until she reached her office that the significance of Danny’s comment on her timekeeping dawned on Harry. He had always been ready with a smile and a joke when she arrived and left each day but she wouldn’t be surprised to find that he was the one who had reported her to Mr Pemberton. The other doorman, Patrick, had always been polite and deferential – more of a hat tipper – but she had no idea what his personality was like. Sooner or later, she would establish which of them was Simeon Pemberton’s spy but it was unlikely to be today.

After swiftly removing her hat and coat, she sank into her seat at the desk to pore over the main story on the front page. Dora Grubb, of Tea Cutter Row, South London, had been arrested by Inspector Archibald of Scotland Yard after an extensive undercover police operation to find the real culprits of the Lord Robertson burglary, the article claimed. The diligence and hard work of the police had paid off, Archibald was reported to have said, and an innocent girl had been saved from an unjust punishment. Efforts to catch the other criminals involved were ongoing, the story went on. Bridget Short, Deputy Governor of Holloway Prison, welcomed the news and praised the efforts of Scotland Yard ‘to right a terrible wrong’. Inspector Archibald’s comments caused Harry to raise a wry eyebrow but she supposed she should be grateful that her role in the case remained a secret. And since no one other than Dora knew the truth, her involvement was likely to remain hidden, as was that of Sherlock Holmes, which was most definitely, indubitably, as it should be.

‘I am glad my client’s innocence had been proven,’ City lawyer Oliver Fortescue said in a statement. ‘She has suffered most egregiously but will now be restored to her family to recover from her ordeal.’

True to his word, Oliver rang Harry just after midday to confirm Mildred had been released without charge. ‘Scotland Yard were very apologetic,’ he told her. ‘They arranged for an ambulance to drive her to a hospital near her parents’ home. I daresay we could visit once she’s on the mend, if you’d like?’

‘I would like,’ Harry said firmly. ‘I’d like that very much indeed.’

‘I also passed on your suspicions about Rose Blackburn to Bridget Short,’ he said. ‘She took the matter very seriously and promised an immediate investigation.’

‘Good,’ Harry said, frowning. ‘I want Rose to pay for what she did to Mildred.’ Her gaze came to rest on the newspaper on her desk. ‘But tell me, how did you persuade Scotland Yard to take the glory?’

On the other end of the phone, she heard him snort. ‘Have you seen the papers today? That was the easy part. Covering our tracks was much harder. I’m afraid I’ve had to tell an awful lot of not-so-little white lies to the authorities, and in particular to my friends at Scotland Yard.’

It had all been necessary, of course, but his words still caused Harry no small measure of discomfort. ‘Ah. I’m sorry about that. I know you pride yourself on your honesty.’

There was a brief silence. ‘I do, in normal circumstances but this case was anything but normal.’ He paused. ‘Besides, being a lawyer is all about knowing which inconvenient facts to leave out. And all’s well that ends well – Mildred is safe and neither of us got seriously hurt. I’d say we acquitted ourselves pretty well, wouldn’t you?’

‘Not too badly,’ Harry said, smiling into the phone.

Oliver coughed. ‘In fact, now that the dust is beginning to settle, there is something I wanted to ask.’ He hesitated, as though steeling himself and Harry thought that she’d never heard him so unsure. ‘I wondered whether you might like – if you have time, that is – whether you would like to—’

But what Harry might like to do was interrupted by a frenzied knocking at her office door. Frowning, she placed her hand over the receiver. ‘Come in.’

Bobby peered in at her, an odd expression on his face. ‘Telegram,’ he said, holding out a thin white oblong.

‘Sorry, I’ve got to go,’ Harry said hastily to Oliver. ‘Catch up later.’

‘Of course,’ Oliver said, although he sounded oddly deflated. ‘I owe you a pint of mild, if nothing else.’

Smiling, Harry rang off and turned her attention to the telegram. It wasn’t unheard of for the fastest method of written communication to make an appearance at the bank but it was the last thing Harry expected to land on her own, inconsequential desk. Telegrams were notoriously expensive too – who on earth needed to contact her that badly? ‘Are you sure it’s for me?’

Bobby shook his head. ‘That’s the thing – it ain’t. It’s for Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Oh!’ Harry exclaimed, although she really ought to have known. She gathered her wits. ‘Thank you, Bobby. Leave it on the desk, if you don’t mind.’

He stared at her. ‘Ain’t you going to open it? The boys in the post room are desperate to know what it says.’

Harry smiled. ‘All in good time, Bobby. I expect it’s just another misguided invitation to investigate a murder. The usual thing.’

‘Ah, got you,’ the post boy said, winking. ‘Say no more.’ He stepped back, about to leave, when he noticed her bruised face. ‘Blimey, look at that shiner. You been in the wars, Miss White?’

She shook her head. ‘Just a fight with a cupboard door,’ she said, cheerfully repeating the lie she’d used earlier that morning. ‘You should see the state of the door.’

He grinned. ‘Gave it hell, did you? Good for you.’

It took several more minutes for the post boy to give up hope that Harry would open the telegram in front of him. Even so, she gave it a further five minutes once the door had closed before she slit the thin paper open, despite the fact that it was practically burning a hole in the surface of her desk. She expected it to be from the Longstaffs, thanking Mr Holmes for his sterling work. But it was not from Esme Longstaff, nor had it been sent by her parents. It was from Mr John Archer, of Thrumwell Manor and it read simply:

Sherlock Holmes. PHILIP ST JOHN at death’s door. Time of the essence. Reply immediately.

Harry stared at it for a moment. The sender was unfamiliar but she knew the name Philip St John – he was a celebrated author, one of her father’s favourites, and a darling of the English literary scene, even though it had been some years since he had been seen in public. What did it mean, at death’s door? More importantly, what did that have to do with Sherlock Holmes? Frowning a little, she set the telegram to one side. Emergency or no emergency, John Archer would have to wait his turn. She had other work to do before she could reply.

Rolling a sheet of paper into her typewriter, Harry took a moment to compose her thoughts and tipped her head at an imaginary Sherlock. ‘A new addition to your casebook, Mr Holmes,’ she murmured, recalling Bobby’s observation that she would make a better assistant than Dr Watson. ‘I’ll try to do it justice.’

Resting her fingers on the keys, she took a deep breath and began to type. The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, she wrote, the keys clattering at speed. The Case of the Missing Maid by R. K. Moss.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

In 1932, the rapidly expanding Abbey Road Building Society moved into their new headquarters in the heart of London. The offices spanned numbers 219–229 Baker Street, which any fan of crime fiction knows includes a very famous address, and sure enough, the bank immediately began to receive letters addressed to Mr Sherlock Holmes. There were so many that they were forced to employ someone to reply – a secretary to Holmes who played along with the belief that the great detective was a real person – and the role continued for many decades, perhaps even until the bank left Baker Street in 2002. It’s not too much of a stretch to imagine that a bright and enterprising secretary might be tempted to investigate one of the alleged crimes on Sherlock’s behalf, even though the mere suggestion was enough to cost them their job… And so The Baker Street Mysteries was born.

Harry White is, of course, as fictional as Holmes but I had great fun envisioning her following in his footsteps, albeit it many years on from the cases he solved. I hope you’ve enjoyed The Missing Maid as much as I enjoyed writing it. The game is most definitely afoot.

Holly Hepburn

January 2024

MORE FROM HOLLY HEPBURN

We hope you enjoyed reading The Missing Maid. If you did, please leave a review. If you’d like to gift a copy, this book is available to purchase in paperback, hardback, large print and audio.

Read on for an exclusive preview. Harriet White returns this Autumn, in a new Baker Street Mystery….

After everything Harry had heard about Thrumwell Grange during her meeting with John Archer, she was not surprised to experience a faint shiver of unease when the chauffeur stopped in front of a pair of imposing iron gates late on Friday afternoon. ‘Won’t be a moment, miss,’ the driver said, opening his door and allowing a chilly gust of wind inside the car. ‘I need to undo the chain.’

Perhaps the security was necessary in the absence of a gatehouse, Harry thought as she watched the driver approach the gates. The property was hidden from the road by a high red brick wall but the entrance was not entirely unguarded; two stone eagles snarled at each other from turrets on either side of the gates, wings spread as though ready to take flight. She turned her head to take in the surrounding area. Archer had not exaggerated when he’d said his uncle’s house was in the middle of nowhere. The car had passed through a tiny village a mile or so back; Harry had observed a pub and a village shop nestled among a small cluster of houses, but the land since had been barren and flat in all directions. Spindly hedgerows lined the far side of the narrow road that bordered Thrumwell Grange, overlooking bare tilled fields that bled into distant hedges and more fields beyond. Trees were few and far between but when they did appear, they were leafless skeletons grasping at the leaden sky. Cambridgeshire was prime farmland, Harry knew, famous for its fertile soil reclaimed from the wetlands. She’d expected it to be dotted with farmhouses and yards, criss-crossed with villages that still bustled even at the start of winter, all laid across a patchwork of undulating fields, much like the land around her family’s estate in Surrey. She hadn’t expected such wide-open emptiness.

The driver’s door opened and the chauffeur slid silently behind the wheel once more. He eased the car through the gates, then stopped again a short way inside. This time, he didn’t explain before getting out and Harry tried not to wince at the heavy clang of iron on iron as the gates were closed and chained. There was no going back now, she thought, although that had been true from the moment she’d alighted on the platform at Ely station; there were no return trains to London until the morning. A prickle of apprehension chased along her spine as the car resumed its journey. It had always been her intention to spend the night at Thrumwell Grange – John Archer had insisted she needed an overnight stay to appreciate the terror that beset his uncle – but now that she was here, she couldn’t help wondering whether coming alone had been a mistake.

The view from inside the walls did nothing to settle her disquiet. There was no avenue of trees lining the somewhat bumpy track to the house, nothing to offer protection from the biting November wind that whistled across the roof of the car. And when she looked to the manor house itself, she was struck by its stark isolation; its only neighbours were the birds circling high above. An almost palpable sense of loneliness hung over the landscape. Perhaps the solitude was what had first drawn Philip St John to buy the house – the author was famously reclusive, after all. And perhaps it was contributing to the fear that was consuming him now, Harry thought. It was certainly affecting her and she hadn’t even crossed the threshold of Thrumwell Manor yet. She gave herself a brisk mental shake. Sherlock Holmes would not allow himself to be swayed by such fanciful notions and nor would she. Far better to rely on logic and deduction if she wanted to understand the mysterious events Mr Archer had described.

The house began to loom large, shaking off the dark shadows that had shrouded it from a distance. Harry turned a curious gaze upon it. The sun was low in the sky; the last of its rays lacing the clouds with delicate pink and orange and Harry half-expected the fading light to reveal broken windows and a neglected roof. What she saw caused an involuntary gasp of shock to escape her. The walls of Thrumwell Grange were the colour of blood.

She blinked hard, cursing her over-stimulated imagination, and looked again but the effect had not diminished. Crimson rippled across the stone, as though the building’s lifeblood seeped from the wounds of its windows. Shaking the ridiculous notion away, Harry took a deep breath and reminded herself in whose name she was there. ‘How extraordinary,’ she said, striving to sound as though blood-drenched houses were an everyday experience. ‘Does it always look like that?’

The driver nodded, his cap bobbing in the half-light. ‘At this time of year, aye. It’s the vines. They turn red just before winter.’

The vines, Harry thought, and almost laughed in relief. Of course that’s what it was – a simple combination of vegetation and the setting sun, fluttering in the wind. As the car drew to a halt, she could see the evidence with her own eyes; the walls of house were indeed covered with thick scarlet leaves, from the ground floor all the way to the garret attic windows at the very top. She felt rather foolish. Holmes would have deduced it in an instant, although she suspected Dr Watson might have been more credulous. But she had no time to dwell on her mistake. The large front door had opened and John Archer was hurrying down the stone steps to meet her.

‘Miss Moss,’ he cried, throwing his arms wide in an expansive, theatrical gesture. ‘Welcome to Thrumwell Grange.’

We hope you enjoyed this exclusive preview!

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Like most authors, I live in genuine fear of forgetting someone who helped shape each of my books but here is a non-exhaustive list of those who contributed to The Missing Maid.

First and foremost, my thanks go to Jo Williamson of Antony Harwood Ltd, for being a constant champion of my writing for over 15 years now. We’ve come a long way and I hope there’s still plenty of road to travel. Boldwood Books is a new publishing home for me, so I hope you will forgive me for failing to thank you all individually but my most heartfelt appreciation must go to my lovely editor Rachel Faulkner-Willcocks, whose enthusiasm from the first moment she heard the Baker Street Mysteries concept has been uplifting and refreshing. It’s been a joy to work on the first story with you, Rachel, and I really value your advice and suggestions to make Harry’s inaugural adventure a better book. I can only hope you’ve held some patience back for Book 2.

Massive thanks to Helena Newton for her excellent copy-editing skills, and Rachel Sargeant for her brilliant proof reading. Your attention to detail is very much appreciated. A grateful tip of the deerstalker to the Boldwood design team for coming up with such a cracking cover. Thank you to Nia Benyon and Jenna Houston for sprinkling their marketing and PR magic over this book, and to Amanda Ridout for building such an incredible team of inspired publishing professionals. I am thrilled to have joined Team Boldwood.

Thank you to my very lovely author friends – to Rowan Coleman, who encouraged me to develop my Sherlock-But-Not-Sherlock idea several years ago (I did finally get around to it, Rowan) and Miranda Dickinson who has frequently listened to me stumble through plot problems and never failed to suggest truly excellent solutions. And as always, my thanks and undying love go to T and E, as well as to Luna for many many writing day cuddles. It is time to go for a walk now, yes.

Last of all, I want to thank the readers who have embarked upon this fresh new voyage in uncharted (for me) waters. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this book at least as much as I enjoyed writing it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Holly Hepburn writes escapist, swoonsome fiction that sweeps her readers into idyllic locations, from her native Cornwall to the windswept beauty of Orkney. With The Missing Maid, her first book published by Boldwood Books, she turns her hand to cosy crime inspired by Sherlock Holmes himself. Holly lives in leafy Hertfordshire with her adorable partner in crime, Luna the Labrador.

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First published in Great Britain in 2024 by Boldwood Books Ltd.

Copyright © Holly Hepburn, 2024

Cover Photography: Shutterstock

The moral right of Holly Hepburn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN 978-1-83533-745-5

Large Print ISBN 978-1-83533-741-7

Hardback ISBN 978-1-83533-740-0

Ebook ISBN 978-1-83533-738-7

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