Nellie had made him her guard dog, charged with protection of the family, with oversight, with scurrying about the rat runs of Soho, truffling out any scraps of intelligence he could find. And perhaps, most of all, keeping her up to date with the comings and goings of Miss Gwendolen Kelling.
Nellie knew that Gwendolen had been engaged by Frobisher to insinuate herself into their lives. She had known it from the very beginning. Gwendolen had been spotted by one of the Forty Thieves in the back of a car with Frobisher outside Holloway on the morning of Nellie’s release. The woman had told Agnes, Agnes had sent word to Nellie from Holloway via her niece, Phyllis, the little scullery maid.
Nellie presumed that it was Frobisher who had ordered Gwendolen Kelling to the Amethyst to snoop on them. What a piece of luck for Frobisher when Gwendolen had been able to help with Frazzini’s injured man, Aldo. It had provided her with an excellent calling card. If the Pierrot hadn’t given up Maddox’s involvement under torture, you might almost think that Frobisher had somehow manipulated the entire fracas in order to introduce Gwendolen into their sphere.
Landor knew which side his bread was buttered on, unlike Oakes, who wanted it buttered on both sides and with jam on as well. Not that Nellie trusted Landor completely, but then Nellie trusted no one completely. Why would you?
Landor and Oakes were costing her a fortune—at this rate, if anyone succeeded in seizing power from her they wouldn’t find much left in the coffers.
Setting off back to Hanover Terrace, Nellie found herself quite buoyed up by all this deception. It was toothsome stuff.
Azzopardi was mistaken to think that Nellie wasn’t hungry enough. Nellie was planning to feast.
* * *
—
Edith was not dead, of course. It would have been unfortunate, Nellie thought, to have fought so hard to save her eldest daughter only to have her taken away on account of greed. Pickled onions—what did she expect would happen? Nellie fumed. Edith had hardly eaten a thing for weeks, thanks to her condition and then her operation, and now at the first opportunity she had gorged on everything she could get her hands on, facilitated by that idiot Ramsay.
It seemed that Edith had come down to the kitchen, looking for yet more food, at which point, the doctor reported, her blood pressure had dropped (“the stress on her stomach”) and she had fainted at the foot of the kitchen stairs, giving every indication that she had fallen down the staircase and broken her neck. The diagnosis of gluttony was a relief. It was hardly something that Maud was likely to have engineered. Edith must be watched closely, and not just her diet. She was not safe as long as Maddox was around. His claws were still in her. Nellie would like to have locked her up. Instead, Edith was castigated and returned to her room with a box of Brand’s meat lozenges to keep her quiet.
* * *
—
The words “day trip” popped suddenly into Nellie’s head. She could not remember when she had last been on a day trip. The thought gave her a sudden fancy for Brighton—the Pier, the Pavilion, afternoon tea at the Grand. She could go for a walk along the promenade, venture out along the Pier and push Maud off the end, return her to the water.
“I might go to Brighton,” Nellie said to Hawker as she clambered awkwardly into the Bentley.
“Really?” he said, unable to conceal his surprise.
“Yes, really.”
“Now?”
“No, not now. Are you getting in or not?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Coker,” Hawker said, surprised by the unwarranted sharpness of her tone. He felt it necessary to point out that actually he was already in the car. “She’s been off her game since Holloway,” he reported to his daughter later, whose response was that he never took her to Brighton. She was a nag, but he was fond of her. When he retired, she said, he could move in with her in Clerkenwell.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Nellie said to Hawker. She watched as Maud gathered her dripping silks and climbed in next to her. She would ruin the Bentley’s leather seats, Nellie thought.
* * *
—
“Got a plan, then, Nell?” Agnes asked.
“Maybe.”
“Surprised to see you back here so soon. Nice of you to visit.”
Nellie had not treated herself to the day trip to Brighton—quite the opposite, she had returned to Holloway. Brighton could wait when her entire existence was under threat.
“Well, you’re a friend, aren’t you? Of course I’ll visit you.” It struck Nellie at that moment that her old cellmate was in fact the nearest thing she had to a friend. Where others might have felt despondent at this realization, Nellie felt relief. Children were obligation enough without the added burden of friendship. “Brought you a box of Liquorice Allsorts,” she said. “Handed it to a wardress, that one with the face of an ugly pug.”
“Edna. I’ll never see it.”
“You will,” Nellie said with commendable certainty. A pound bribe and the knowledge of where Edna’s mother lived were enough to ensure that the sweets would be handed over. Reward and punishment, the stones on which Nellie had built both business and family.
“Sweet-talking me, eh?” Agnes laughed. “Thanks anyway, Nell. How’s our Phyllis doing?”
“She’s good,” Nellie said. “A little gem.”
Phyllis, Agnes’s niece, had declared a peculiar desire to live her life on the straight and narrow, and Nellie had obliged by finding her employment in Hanover Terrace. Of course, Nellie might not have been everyone’s definition of the straight and narrow, but everything is relative. Phyllis’s own mother, Agnes’s sister, was the nonpareil of shoplifters. The whole family were accomplished thieves.
“Well, you know we’re grateful for you taking Phyllis in,” Agnes said. “God knows what would have happened to her otherwise. Joined the police force, probably.”
“So,” Nellie said, now the niceties were out of the way, “I was wondering what you might have heard on the grapevine.”
“You’re double-dealing with Maddox and his sidekick.”
“Sergeant Oakes,” Nellie confirmed.
“The Laughing Policeman. Nasty piece of work.”
“He is that,” Nellie said. “I’m hoping it’ll give me a chance to thwart Maddox when he makes his move.” She shifted in her chair. “Who’s Azzopardi, Agnes?”
“Oh, yes, old Joe Spiteri, I heard he was back in town. Didn’t realize it was him at first because he’s changed his name—before your time, of course, Nell.”
“Yes, but who is he?”
“A thief, pure and simple, before the war anyway. A bit of a legend in his day, Spiteri was—used to shin up drainpipes, climb on roofs, that kind of thing—he was a cat burglar.”
“I don’t think he’d get up a drainpipe these days.”
“Liked taking from the rich but not giving to the poor. Big houses in Mayfair, Belgravia. Hotels, too. The Ritz. Brown’s was one, I think, the Goring was another.”
“The Goring?”
“That’s where Spiteri—Azzopardi as he is now—was caught. He was trying to steal the jewellery of an American oil millionaire’s wife. One of the millionaire’s men had a gun, shot Azzopardi, only in the hand, but then hotel security got him. He was doing one last job before he retired. Never say you’re doing ‘one last job,’ Nell. You’ll curse yourself. Anyway, he was arrested, tried, sent to prison. It was a surprise to hear he’d popped up again. I’d forgotten all about him. Rumour has it that all the loot he’d stolen was stashed somewhere but he was never able to retrieve it. Jewellery, mostly, from a big job at the Ritz.”
“Jewellery?”
“Yeah, jewellery. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds.”
“Amethysts,” Nellie murmured faintly.
“Yeah, them too. What’s he to you, Nell?”
* * *
—
Visiting time came to its usual abrupt end and Nellie heaved herself up from the unwelcoming chair provided for visitors. “Well, good to see you, Agnes. You’ll be out soon. Come to the Amethyst and celebrate. Champagne’s on me.” She hesitated.
“Need something, Nell?”
“Looking for reinforcements.”
“Frazzini’s lot not enough for you?” Agnes laughed. “You need half of London on your side?”
“Need an army,” Nellie said.
“See what I can do,” Agnes said.
* * *
—