Page 35 of Guardian
I went cold, thinking of my mother doing this. “Did she say who the jenny was?”
“Oh, it warn’t my mum,” Fanny said hastily. “But she couldn’t recall. Her memory isn’t what it was.” As Fanny dug into her reticule, my shoulders eased with relief that at least her mother hadn’t named mine. “Look at this,” she said, handing me a photograph. “It’s my mum and Maggie. The date on the back is 1858, about a year afore Maggie was caught. Don’t let it blow away. I had to beg Ma to lend it.”
I took it with both hands. There were four people in the photograph, all unsmiling, as they’d no doubt been instructed, although Maggie, in the center, somehow managed to convey that she was repressing a laugh. Her large dark eyes, made more dramatic with stage makeup, sparkled; her shining black hair was piled high and dropping ringlets on her shoulder; her chin was lowered coquettishly; her full lips were slightly parted, as if about to whisper a secret.
Consciously or not, the three others had all leaned in toward Maggie. To her right was Fanny’s mother, June, with fair hair and a pretty face. Her hand was looped loosely through Maggie’s bent elbow. Standing behind June was a gawky dark-haired boy of about thirteen, who rested his pale fingers on Maggie’s right shoulder. He looked uncertain, even shy, in what might have been his best clothes. Beside him stood a fair-haired young man of about twenty-five. In the style of previous decades, he was clean-shaven except for his small mustaches. Was this the man who had stirred up trouble between my mother and Maggie? He was handsome enough, certainly.
There was something familiar about the boy. “Who are they?” I pointed to him and the man.
“Mum couldn’t remember their names,” Fanny said. “The boy looks almost sweet, don’t he? He was a cousin of Maggie’s—she took him in after he left home or was thrown out or some such—and the other was one of Maggie’s beaus. Mum said there were plenty of ’em. Maggie was an actress for a bit—a proper one at a theater, and famous even. Did you know?”
“I’d heard something about it.”
“That’s why this was taken. The photographer came backstage one day and asked to take a picture for the program. She said yes, but she wanted this photograph taken, too.” Fanny looked at it critically. “She’s pretty, ain’t she?”
“Very,” I said.
I handed the photograph back, making sure Fanny had it securely in her fingers before I let go. “Did she say anything else?”
She slipped it into her reticule. “She said Maggie was the brightest, liveliest girl, with a lovely singing voice and slender hands. Men would come to her dressing room, beggin’ to take her out for supper after. She used to bring bouquets of flowers to the lodging house.”
“Until she became a thief.”
“She did it to please her mum,” Fanny said. “Patty wanted Maggie to take the ring.”
That wasn’t what Amelia said, and my mind jumped again to Maggie’s belief about the dead knowing what happens to the living. “I wonder if Maggie’s mother is pleased with her, at last.”
Fanny looked at me oddly. “What doyouthink o’ Maggie?”
“She’s not changing much, leastwise not yet,” I said. “But I think she’s treading carefully.”
“I’ve heard now that Amelia’s gone, she’s going to trim the ring,” Fanny said.
“What?” My heart skipped a beat. “Who’s she cutting? We all pull our weight.”
“Nell, for sure, and possibly Mary.” Her eyes were regretful. “I know Mary’s your friend. I wanted to warn you.”
I felt a spike of anger. “Who told you this?”
“She told Nell that she wants to keep the books herself—and that Nell won’t be the only one to go.” Fanny shrugged. “The only one who hasn’t worked much is Mary.”
“Because her mother died!” I retorted. “She’s fine now. I should know.”
Fanny raised a hand in protest. “Don’t yell atme. I’m just telling you what I heard.”
“Besides, Mary’s earned plenty for the ring over the years.”
Fanny rolled her eyes. “I know.”
I wonder if Maggie had spoken to Mary yet. “Damn,” I swore. “Doesn’t she know what loyalty is? And what’s Mary supposed to bloody do?”
Fanny shook her head, not as if she didn’t care but as if she had no good answer, and the wind, damp and chill, flapped our coats open.
I would have to tell Mary tonight. It was only Fanny’s guess, but I’d put her on her guard.
We turned and headed across the bridge.
Fanny and I reached Hunt and Roskell, one of the few jewelers who hadn’t moved to Hatton Garden. I’d passed this shop before, as had Fanny, on a casing trip not long ago. Two large windows up front, a glass-paned door, multiple cabinets, locks on the left after two thefts some years ago. The shop was busy, and Fanny waited patiently, admiring the necklaces in a case. Meanwhile, I edged closer to a woman examining some gold bracelets. She had a distracted air, asking the clerk to take three out—no, four—and I stilled my face. I was supposed to be merely Fanny’s jenny, but this woman was making it almost too easy.
