Meet Phinney, Disguised to Spy in *The Hazard for Spies*

The Gregorys completely overset Phinney’s plan. She had to agree but prayed that an opportunity to enter Mr. Titterstone’s office presented itself before the night ended. She gathered her basket and broom and dust bin. He grudgingly agreed to carry the lantern.

She sighed every time Mr. Gregory fumbled to unlock an office door. Since many of them had additional interior rooms with closets, she felt a little light-headed from all of those sighs. Several times she pointed out small side rooms then sighed all the louder. When he grumbled at the time she spent in each office, she clanked her broom handle against doors then dropped her dust bin which caused a careful sweep-up of the dust and waste.

He grew impatient before she’d finished the third floor. When she began sweeping the stairs down from the third floor, he protested, “Here now. That can wait until you’ve finished the offices.”

“But this is the order that Mrs. Gregory told me to follow.”

He huffed and patted his foot.

She didn’t speed up. She even swept the outer edge of the banisters, a task she hadn’t previously done. As she came up the stairs, she carefully dusted every banister rail. Then she began the flight to the fourth floor. At the landing, she picked up her basket with its cloths, the broom, and the large dust bin. She had a vague plan to spill it again, but he gruffly said, “Here” and took it from her.

As she started the anteroom of Mr. Fulbright’s office, Mr. Gregory lost patience. “I can’t keep nursemaidin’ you. I got the coal to deliver. I’m going to unlock all the doors for you, Mrs. Coates, all but the door to Mr. Titterstone’s office.”

She dampened her jubilation. “Of course, Mr. Gregory. Shall I do that office next, so that you can lock it up first when you come back with the coal?”

“I got the first and second floors to deliver. I’ll be lucky if I finish before Mr. Bannockburn arrives.

That old cuss is always early.” Muttering, he stomped off with that curious quick-step from a smashed knee healed stiff.

Phinney continued to dust Mr. Fulbright’s outer office as footsteps and jangling keys faded. She heard the master key scrape open several locks, but the sound faded as Mr. Gregory worked through the more distant offices. She did hear him reach the outer door for Titterstone & Montjoy, Solicitors. The lock was stiff, and he grumbled until it turned. His footsteps faded, paused, returned then faded again before returning.

When he found her, she was dusting shelves in the closet of Mr. Fulbright’s inner office. “They’re all opened now, Mrs. Coates. I remembered every door.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gregory.”

He stood there, but she whisked her cloth over several files. He turned and stomped out.

When a door banged shut, she reckoned it led to the back stair. She finished the little closet then began Mr. Fulbright’s inner office. She skipped the baseboards and windows. She dumped his dust bin into hers, swiped a rag over the obvious surfaces, then packed up and headed for her whole reason for coming tonight.

Phinney held her breath as she crossed the threshold, but no ghost rose to drive her away.

She propped her broom in a corner. Tucked into her bun, well hidden by the mobcap, were the lockpicks that Vic had loaned her. She reached for them—but cold gusted over her, as if someone opened a door to a winter wind—or a ghost swept past.

Crouching before Mr. Titterstone’s door, new fear landed on her shoulders. She tried to shake off superstition by listening, concentrating hard to hear any distant sound. All was silent. No stomping, no grumbling, no jangling keys.

She would wait a few seconds more. And the crumpled paper in her pocket would be her excuse. She drew it out, unfolded it then smoothed the crumpled creases again. Then she turned the paper to the light cast by her lantern.

It was a portion of a letter—the third page if she believed the number on the top right. She recognized Mr. Titterstone’s handwriting. He had stopped in mid-sentence, crossed out a few lines. Then the other writer penned his list. After that, someone wadded up the paper and pitched it to the dust bin. And missed.

A rental agreement, and the lessee in arrears. She wondered who the lessee and lessor were and where the rental property was. She hadn’t thought either solicitor concerned themselves with such mundane matters as property leases. Yet they served wealthy clients like Mr. Bennett Parton of Parton March. Perhaps rental agreements were part of their duties.

She tossed the paper into the dust bin. Then she listened again and still heard nothing.

She fumbled for Vic’s lockpicks. The first pick went smoothly into the lock. She slid it around, getting a feel for the lock as Vic had instructed, then she inserted the second pick and set to work. The boy swore most locks were simple, “fixed up to send thieves off to easier prey.” This lock fit that description, turning easily.

The only problem was that Vic hadn’t taught her how to lock the door back.

If she left the door shut, Mr. Gregory might never check it. By dawn she would be gone, never to return. Mr. Gregory would connect her to Olivia Stowbridge and the mission, but she doubted he would pursue her.

Nor would he mention the opened door to Mr. Montjoy, for he would risk the solicitor’s wrath for disobeying orders.

Dawn would see her safe.

She snatched up her cleaning basket and lantern before she entered. And closed the door behind her.

Her gaze skittered past the ledgers and documents on the floor, straight to where Mr. Titterstone had lain. A browning stain circled where his head had been.

Phinney looked away. She set her basket and lantern on the desk. Then she headed for the painting, the Thames in flood, high waters under the London Bridge. Hope was a physical pang as she lifted it off its nail.

The artist was good, not great. The buildings were slightly out of perspective. The tumultuous storm clouds looked muddy rather than threatening.

Holding her breath, she turned the painting over.

Tucked between the two nails that held the right side of the canvas in the frame was an envelope. She snatched it up. The envelope bore no name or direction. Plain wax had sealed it, but someone—Mr. Titterstone?—had carefully lifted the seal to keep it intact.

Do I dare read it now? No. Mr. Gregory might return. She didn’t want to be interrupted when she read this document, so important that Mr. Titterstone had stolen it from an office in Liverpool and hidden it in his office here. And someone else thought the document important—and had sent Richard Malbury to retrieve it and kill Mr. Titterstone when he refused to give it up.

Into her pocket the envelope went. She patted her skirt over the pocket, ensuring that no bulge would betray her. Then she replaced the painting on its nail, straightened it with the tip of her finger.

Now, to leave.

The outer office door opened.

She froze—then snatched a damp cloth from her basket and slid to the bloodstain. Her back was to the door, but she didn’t change position. She dropped down. As her cloth touched the stain, the door opened.

“What are you going here?”

Phinney froze at his voice, the last one she wanted to hear. Her strangled throat managed, “Cleaning, sir.”

“Get out.”

“I got to finish here, sir.”

“Curse you, I told you to get out.”

Keeping her chin tucked, she climbed to her feet. She didn’t want Richard Malbury to recognize her. She reached for her basket.

“Wait. You were here last night. What did you see?”

The basket was solidly in her hand. “Me, sir? No, sir. I come to work just this night. T’other girl didn’t came. Scared of ghost.”

She’d said too much. His sharpened attention was a tangible weight. He stepped between her and the door. “I know you.”

“Sir? No, sir.”

“Yes. I never forget a pretty face. Yours was in a rose garden.”

That old memory startled her into looking up.

“Yes, I do know you. Which means you know me. You can identify me to the local constables.”

“No. No, sir. I didn’t work here last night.”

He grinned. “Keep talking. Every word sharpens the memory. Especially with all of those ‘no’s’. Say something else. I almost have the memory.”

That memory was the last thing she wanted. The basket had little weight. If she struck him with it, she would only anger him, not escape. But—.

She saw the lantern as he reached for her.

Phinney swung the basket at him. He recoiled. That gave her the inches needed to snatch the lantern. She swung that around. It struck his arm. The metal casing collapsed. The candle, still burning by a strange miracle, spilled to the floor. Onto the documents and the open ledgers. Little flames saw fuel and leaped to feed.

He grabbed her arm. “What have you done?”

The lantern was reduced to the bail and the square plate that formed the top, but she slung it back then over, a roundhouse, Vic had called it. The blow completed the lantern’s disintegration.

And Richard Malbury staggered away, clutching his head, blood gushing under his fingers. He swore and reached for her again.

Phinney jumped away. Mindful of the pistol he’d used last night, she fled for the door. She slammed it behind her, slammed the outer door, then picked up her skirts and ran for the front stairs, closer, wider, and better lit.