Page 59 of Guardian
“Then why can’t you do this yourself?”
“This.” She lifted her bad hand. “It’s a hindrance, as is my eyesight, which isn’t as keen as it once was.”
I drew a breath. “Maggie, I can’t get you the revenge you want. Not like this.”
“Not even for two hundred pounds?” she asked. “What if I make it three?”
When I didn’t reply, her face tightened with anger before she smoothed it back out to show only disappointment. “Why don’t you think on it and come see me tomorrow? You’ve done most of the work already, looking into Hatton Garden.” She raised the glass to her mouth and sipped. “I’ll have something for you, whatever you decide.”
“There’s no need to pay—”
“No. I don’t ask people to work for nothing. It’s only fair.”
“All right.” I knew my answer, but I would give it to her tomorrow, if she preferred.
As I reached the door, I heard her voice behind me: “Have you talked to Amelia lately?”
Stifling a pang, I turned back. “No. Not since she left.”
She smiled briefly. “Tomorrow, then.”
I nodded and shut the door behind me, heading down the staircase with a feeling of relief.
My escape from Maggie’s plan had been easier than I expected—indeed, so easy that it left me unsettled—and her story raised questions about the past that I knew only Amelia could answer. My chest ached with wanting to talk to her.
But who might know where she had gone? The only person I could think of was Emma.
A storm had rolled in while I’d been with Maggie, and it had begun to rain, one of those London rainstorms that slashed at windows and made the edges of the streets run with water. In the pub room, I plucked an abandoned, bent-spoked umbrella from the stand beside the door, took a lit lamp from the sill, and crossed the wide expanse of cobblestones in front of the inn. Usually at this time of day it was filled with carriages, costermonger carts, children, dogs. The downpour had emptied it and hid the façades of the buildings opposite, the only sign of them the light from the windows.
I headed to Emma’s shop and knocked at the door. There was no answer, and I banged on the door again, louder. Emma emerged from the kitchen, peering through the shop toward the window.
“Emma, it’s Kit,” I called through the glass, tilting back the umbrella so she could see my face.
She hurried forward and unlocked the door. The bell tinkled as she pulled it open. “Good lord, Kit, it’s pouring!”
I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. I didn’t attempt to fold the umbrella as I wasn’t sure I’d be able to open it again.
Her eyes searched mine. “What’s the matter? Is it James?”
“I need to speak to Amelia.”
Her jaw slacked, and she began to shake her head.
“It’s important, Emma.”
Emma wrapped one arm across her waist, crooking the other to put her hand in a loose fist over her mouth.
I was putting her in a terrible spot, I knew.
“Kit, she doesn’t want anyone to know where she is. Including Maggie.”
“She’d be the last person I’d tell,” I said. “Please, Emma, trust me.” A pleading note crept into my voice. “James does.”
She lowered her hand to cross both arms over her chest. “Near Farringdon Market, in Shoe Lane, number thirteen.”
Shoe Lane was between Old Bailey and Hatton Garden.
“The upper story,” Emma added, her voice subdued. “And don’t be followed.”
