‘Curious.’
Milly turned her head to face Frankie. There again was that downward scoop of her lashes, the scorn sliding down her nose. ‘You think I’m behind this. I would come after a show-girl in a basement supper club because she stole a brooch of mine? You think I care about family crests and heirlooms? More than people’s lives?’
They rode in silence for a while. As the tram curved round towards Oxford Street, Milly reached to pull the bell.
‘Where are you going?’
Her mouth was set in a solid pout and she looked at Frankie for a couple of seconds as if contemplating long and hard whether to share what was on the tip of her tongue. Then she leant close enough for Frankie to smell the frankincense on her collar and the faint tang of orange blossom on her breath, and whispered, ‘If we’re going in there, I want to be armed.’
‘You what?’
She rubbed her lips together. ‘I want a gun. A pistol. It’s dangerous. That’s two people they’ve murdered. And my head’s still sore from last night.’
Frankie looked confused. ‘Where are you going to get a gun from? Do you just have a stash of them at the club in case you want to go pigeon-shooting in Hyde Park, taking pot shots at peasant girls down Frith Street?’
Her jaw was still tight. ‘I’m going home.’
Frankie tilted her head back in the direction they had come from. ‘But Talgarth Road’s—’
‘I’m not talking about Talgarth Road. I’m talking about home. Belgravia.’
She started to descend the winding stairs of the tram when it pulled to a halt sending them both knocking into the sides of the staircase. Once again Frankie cursed as the loose papers came fluttering out of her notebook. She stumbled to retrieve them all from the sticky stairs of the tram, then stuffed them back in with one hand, swinging herself off onto the street with the other. By the time the tram moved off with a jerk she saw that Milly was already crossing the street, dodging horse-drawn hansom cabs and black motor cars. Tucking her notebook away, she hopped the few steps to catch up, thanking her stars as a horse and cart whizzed past at a full trot, just missing her.
Frankie did as she was told and waited on the street outside the scoop of stairs and the columned portico, feeling like a petulant footman who had spoken out of turn to his mistress. It was an impressive house, right enough: five floors including a basement and a balustrade at the top. The street was wide, with a green square on one side, and so full of quiet air it seemed as if a muffler had been placed between it and the rest of London. There were no newspaper boys crying their pitch, no shopgirls or clerks, no drunks. Only a few purring motorcars and the occasional carriage. At the next house along, a lady in a long string of pearls with streaked iron-grey hair was twitching her first-floor curtain.
Frankie stuffed her hands in her pockets and whistled for a while, still shaking off her sulk. What Milly had said about her hating everyone wasn’t true. It was only a temper, only her shooting her mouth off without thinking. Some people seemed to always find time to think about what they wanted to say; for Frankie, those extra minutes and seconds didn’t exist, she didn’t know where they were found.
She scuffed the dirt on the path with her foot and looked up as she heard the rattle of a carriage approaching. The horses drew closer, the vehicle began to slow and she saw that it was bound for where she stood. She hopped back a few paces to give them room. The door of the carriage opened, a foot in a squeezed brown kidskin boot stepped onto the path. Just as it made contact with the crunch of dirt, Frankie heard a crash behind her: the sound of a slamming door. Milly came charging down the steps. Then Frankie saw her freeze.
The rest of the figure appeared from the carriage.
Frankie saw the stack of pamphlets in the woman’s hand first. Bold printed, some smeared, the smell of burnt ink and paper coming off them, the words ‘This way to the gates of hell’. They bore the stamp of the National Vigilance Association in the bottom corner. The woman adjusted the cloak on her shoulders and Frankie saw before her a curtain lifting so vividly it made her want to laugh in shock. The features were the same. Why hadn’t she seen it? The high nose, the proud cheeks, the fine ice blue of the eyes. Granted there was far more skin round the old woman’s jowls but it was unmistakable. Milly was the daughter of Lady Thorne.
Lady Thorne took a few heavy, unsettled breaths and adjusted the stack of pamphlets in her hand. Her eyes fell to the pavement. Frankie thought back to the exchange on the street outside Jojo’s. She should have made the connection. She had put it down to the spitting familiarity of a showgirl troubled by her nemesis, nothing more.
Lady Thorne’s daughter dancing with a snake round her waist! Frankie’s first thoughts were on the scoop. How delicious to have walked blindfolded into an exposé on the licentious life of London’s most notorious moral guardian’s daughter? She tried to keep the smile from her eyes. It vanished properly when she saw the coldness on Milly’s face. Her lips were drained of their colour. The lines on her cheeks fissured deeper. It sent a chill through the back of Frankie’s neck. She had never seen a look so loveless between a mother and daughter.
Milly grabbed Frankie’s wrist like a walking stick. ‘Come with me.’ She led her roughly off the path and down onto the road, speeding up until she had broken them both into a run.
When Frankie dared to turn her head back, she could see Lady Thorne staring after them with a distanced look in her eyes, a carefree gaze that was enough to make her shudder.
At the end of the street she yanked them both to a halt, feeling the burn in her lungs. ‘I’m not made for this.’ She watched Milly splutter and pant, refusing to meet Frankie’s eye. ‘Did you get the gun?’
Milly nodded.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Milly could hear the smile in her voice. ‘Don’t.’
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s—’
‘It’s what, Frankie? The scoop of the century? National Vigilance Association daughter dances like prostitute in Soho? It’s none of anyone’s business is what it is. She made her living by marrying. You don’t think that’s prostitution? You ever heard of a debutantes’ ball? You don’t think that’s prostitution? Arranged marriages, parents plotting behind your back. At least I’m only letting the men look at me.’ There was a sour downturn in her mouth. Frankie was astonished to see her spit phlegm onto the pavement, as if she could rid herself of a bitter taste. She touched the silk of Milly’s arm.
Milly shook her head and wrenched her arm away. ‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we?’
They arrived at Bond Street to find it bustling with shoppers and pleasure-strollers wrapped up in furs taking arm-in-arm turns. A short nimble man in brown pinstripes was handing out flyers for a show in the West End.
Outside the Maid in the Moon, Tommy Dawber was watering a trough of winter seedlings, weedy looking holly and ivy. Frankie closed in on him quietly, making him jump and choke on his own saliva.
‘Stone the crows, Frankie.’
‘I’m sorry, Tommy.’
He made a pantomime of clutching at his chest. Then his eyes, like everyone’s seemed to have in the past two days, fell on Milly. He straightened up and adjusted his tie. ‘What’s brings you here? You on another newspaper job?’
Frankie glanced across the street to see if she could spy Liam. It wasn’t quick enough for Tommy to miss.
‘Leave it. I saw you here the other day. Let a man have some dignity in death. I’ve had nothing but questions, questions, questions from everyone. I’m doing better than that drinking-hole in Whitechapel after the Ripper business.’ He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably and set down the watering can. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if . . . don’t give me that look, Frankie. You know as well as anyone, it’s not right . . . what he wore.’
‘I don’t care what colour knickerbockers he wore. I just want to know, has anyone been in there? Anyone you’ve seen?’
Tommy’s teeth hovered threateningly o
ver his bottom lip. ‘The police a couple of times, on the morning it happened.’
‘No one else?’
His eyes dangled on Milly for a second, fishing for an introduction. She was fiddling in her deep silk pockets, pretending to watch a woman down the street heaving two giant poodles from a carriage into a hotel lobby.
‘I’ve got my nose in a brewer’s tap half the time, Frankie. You know that. I haven’t been watching.’
Frankie fought the urge to scowl. ‘Well, can you watch now, just for a second. Give us a whistle if anyone does come?’
‘Frankie.’ His face turned down.
‘Come on, Tommy. One for the Spurs.’
‘You had your one for the Spurs off me, couple of nights ago.’
Frankie discreetly wiped a fleck of his spittle from her lapel. He noticed. ‘Just once. But if any police come sniffing round, wondering what two,’ he hesitated, ‘ladies were doing in that shop when it’s supposed to be locked off, private property.’
‘Then you tell them, both short, fat, corset-wearing types, one of them had a glass eye and a Scottish accent, the other one walked with a limp, like she had a peg leg. Thanks, Tommy, keep an eye out. Both ways, mind.’ She gestured in both directions up the road as they moved to cross it. She could hear Tommy tutting loudly under his breath.
‘Where the hell is that boy? Only time we could bloody use him.’ Apart from not being able to see Liam anywhere, Frankie was relieved to find Lancashire Court empty. Milly made a careful check that no one was around then very casually drew a silver pistol from her pocket, monogrammed and engraved with elaborate patterns. A thrill of revulsion swelled through Frankie. ‘What does he use that for?’
‘Who?’
‘Your father.’
She frowned. ‘This is mine.’
‘You can shoot?’
‘Keep your voice down. Of course I can shoot.’
‘But I thought women . . .’ she trailed off, seeing the scornful triumph in Milly’s eyes.
‘Don’t shoot? Of course not. That would almost be as bad as them writing the news.’ Milly busied herself picking away at the lock with fixed concentration.
‘What’s taking so long?’
‘It’s stiffer this time. Not just the latch. It’s been twisted twice, deadlocked.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it, it means there’s no one in there?’
Milly looked at her with an eyebrow raised. She had started to say, ‘I think you’re going to have to smash it,’ when there came the familiar tiny snap, and the lock slid across. She eased the handle with the tips of her fingers and they both stepped inside.
The place seemed dustier in the blue haze of day, murky streams of sun picking out particles floating in the air. There was the same smell of linen and cotton but it was fustier, warmer and ranker, as if damp was already setting in with no door blowing open and closed, no customers to air the garments out.
They crept up the high stairs, feeling for the creaks in advance until they were on the tiny landing between the two rooms. Frankie pointed to the one she had peeped through the night before.
‘Hold it out. In front of you.’
Milly’s brow creased.
‘The pistol.’
‘I don’t want to use it, Frankie.’
‘Better you than me.’
‘Don’t joke.’
‘I’m not. I can’t even piddle straight let alone shoot.’ Frankie dropped to her knee, wincing from the pain still there from the night before, and peered through the keyhole. It was harder to see now. The curtains blocked out most of the day’s light, filtering it to a dirty emerald. She could see the iron corset on the carved dummy once again and shuddered. ‘Drink tea and play bridge,’ she muttered.
Feeling like she was about to jump into iced water, she gave the handle a sharp twist. It jammed and she waited. No noises came from inside. ‘You’re going to have to pick this.’
‘I’m not going to have any pins left to hold my hair up.’
Milly carelessly dropped the gun into Frankie’s hands, catching Frankie off guard with the weight of it, still warm from her grasp, the polished metal smooth. The engravings gripped Frankie’s palm and she shivered, feeling the dread immediacy of the weapon, the heavy possibility of her finger slipping and killing someone faster than she could blink. Her hand felt too large for it, the gun dainty like a lady’s comb, shiny against the grime under her fingernails.
Milly scraped and scrabbled for a few seconds then came the prise and click. Frankie shoved the gun back at her and inched the door open.
‘Be gentle with it. It’s not an ornament.’
The room was in two parts, a small white-washed warehouse stuffed with gaudy embellished designs, and a splintered mezzanine which stretched halfway across the length of the space, accessed by a thin wooden ladder. Underneath it, more rows of antiquated corsets hung, gathering dust; crushed moth wings and beetle droppings. A rack was tucked separately from the rest, with conspicuously larger bodices lined in a neat row, cleaner, worn more recently, and each pinned with a piece of paper identifying it by a nickname: ‘Jess’, ‘Bobby’, ‘Alfie’. On the mezzanine a row of seven neat Singer pedal sewing machines sat, lovingly polished.
‘Careful,’ Milly warned, as Frankie placed a foot on the pale ladder. They climbed to the top and found themselves in a clean, well-kept workshop space. Reams of silk and linen were stacked tidily in one corner, the floor had been recently swept and the boards, though sticking with the odd nail and splinter, were in good condition. Patterns had been arranged in little bundles tied with ribbon on a shelf. By the edge of the platform next to a gas lamp sat a box filled to the brim with bobbins of cotton in various colours – whites, golds, peaches – then next to it a casket of lace trimmings; spidery French lace, strips of Chantilly, some thicker Finnish lace Frankie recognised from a bedcover in Twinkle’s boudoir. The organisation was spotless, a factory as neat and boutique as the shop below it. It was not at all what Frankie had expected from Beth Evans’s description of bleeding fingertips and merciless hours. But then, appearances were deceptive. A boiling laundry house looked clean and calm at the end of a shift.
Milly began picking over the piles of cloth with her eyes. The gloom silhouetted the shape of her gown, billowing round her body in the draught from below. Frankie tugged a loose floorboard. It came up half-way and she peered into the dirty gap underneath, sniffed, then replaced it.
‘You’d better keep an eye on the door and have that thing ready.’
‘I’m only using it as a threat. There are no bullets in it.’
‘What?’
‘There are no bullets in it. I don’t intend to use it.’
‘But you were the one wanted to be armed.’
‘As a threat,’ she said firmly, then sat on the platform, tucking her legs underneath her, flicking her eyes between the room below and the door.
There were a few ledger books on the shelf. Frankie opened them, wishing she knew how to decipher sums and figures. They looked like her father’s accounts from the vegetable stall. She ran her eyes down the notes, looking for a name, an order placed, something that might chime with anything she had heard before. She scraped the flaps at each side of the book, where the paper was glued to the blue pasteboard, to see if they would give, but they were stuck firmly and running her palm along them revealed that nothing was wedged between the book and its casing. When she replaced it, she noticed that on the same shelf, underneath the account log, lay a little black address book. With her heart giving the tweak of a jig she creaked open the leather, hoping to see the names and addresses of Lords and MPs, members of The Hourglass Club. It was only clients though, the names of some suppliers of fabrics and seamstresses for outsourcing specialised labour. She gave a sigh, looking back at the row of sewing machines. After a few seconds of staring at the black wood cases she heard Milly’s breath hiss, a sound like gas escaping a valve.
‘What?’ A wave of fright trickl
ed down her spine. She braced herself for a confrontation. But Milly wasn’t staring at the door. She was staring at something below the platform on the clothing rail, a white and black rectangle stuck to a moth-eaten black lace veil.
‘What is it?’
Milly didn’t answer. Frankie scrambled towards the wooden ladder but couldn’t see clearly through the slats. She made to descend.
‘No, don’t. I’ll get it.’
‘You sit there, watch the door.’
‘No Frankie, I’ll get it.’ Milly gingerly prised herself off her knees and clambered down the ladder backwards, pointing the gun to the ground. She reached forward, straining into the rack of corsets. From above, the object looked like a palm-sized photograph with holes cut into its border. The seconds stretched as Milly stared at it, then she climbed back up, clasping it to her throat.
‘What is it?’
It took Milly a moment to prise her tight fingers off it, then she held it out, watching all the time as if she could change the face of it by staring.
Frankie squinted in the green light. At first it just looked like a nude on a penny playing card, a woman posing with one arm loosely braced behind her head. Then Frankie clocked the snake and her lips moved into a tight ‘o’ to whistle.
Milly cut her off. ‘It was when I’d just got back. I was feeling very, very rebellious.’ Her voice fractured. ‘Like I wanted to liberate myself or something. Be naked after what had happened. I did it in one of Lillian’s friend’s studios. A greasy little man who works off the Aldwych. Lillian had told me it was empowering, posing for men. Oh, she loves to take her clothes off. Thinks it’s revolutionary, like she’s a courtesan in the Belle Époque. A bit different when it’s an oil painting to a penny pack of cards.’
‘Hold on a second, what’s that?’ Frankie was peering beyond her, to the ground. She wedged past Milly, hopped onto the ladder and dipped down. Dress hangers smacked together as she pushed the clothing rail aside. Nestled underneath it was a sack, the top lip just draping open revealing another playing card with a picture of Milly on it, nude and pouting. Again the suit markers in each corner had been torn out. Frankie dragged the bag towards her and it tipped, spilling masses of the same cards all over the dusty floor.
The Hourglass Factory Page 28