Page 67 of Fire Must Burn

There didn’t seem to have been much searching done. The fire brigade might have done a perfunctory investigation, looking for arson. And Scotland Yard might have done some poking around, but to them, Danforth was a victim, not a criminal.

To Carruthers he was a possible spy and a traitor, so he was going to be looking at the scene very differently. He popped the latches on the trunk and opened it. Danforth had been lucky in one sense: his clothes were untouched, albeit reeking of smoke. If he ever healed to the point of allowing wool or cotton to touch his skin, they were waiting for him.

It took him all of a minute to find the concealed compartment behind the suits, reinforced with thin steel plates, making it fireproof. He reached in and found a few sheets of paper. He held them up, shining his torch on them.

They contained arrays of handwritten numbers, all either two or three digits.

Code, he thought, and not one he recognised.

Well, well.

EIGHT

Iris woke up not recognizing the room she was sleeping in. It was not the first time that had happened, but there was no one else in the bed beside her, so that particular category of blackout adventure could be ruled out.

Her clothes from the previous day were neatly laid out on a chair by the bed, which further eliminated the possibility that she had allowed herself to be picked up by a man. She sat up, wincing as the hangover made its presence known, then swung her legs over the side of the bed.

The first clue to bring her back were the pyjama legs, which unrolled several inches past the bottoms of her feet.

Gwen, she thought. I’m wearing her pyjamas.

She rolled them up past her ankles, then lowered her feet to the floor. The windows were shuttered. She ignored the frantic warnings of the hangover and opened one. The view was of the rear gardens of Gwen’s house with the greenhouse in one corner, beyond which a gate let out onto a common garden, available to the lucky ones who lived around it, hidden otherwise from the less fortunate denizens of the area. There were even birds singing, which she might have appreciated had not the hangover, already shrieking like a vampire in the daylight, begun to pound on the inside of her skull with one of those giant mallets from a high striker game.

It took a few seconds for the pounding to resolve itself into a gentle knocking on the door from outside.

‘Come in,’ she called.

Millie entered with a breakfast tray.

‘Good morning, Miss Sparks,’ she said. ‘I’ve got aspirin and bicarbonate available should you need them.’

‘Both, please,’ said Iris. ‘What’s the hour?’

‘Seven thirty. Mrs Bainbridge wishes to know if you would like to join her for her workout?’

‘Not today, Millie. Thank her for asking.’

‘Of course. There’s a spare toothbrush on the dresser.’

Millie placed the tray on the bedside table, then slipped out, closing the door quietly.

The application of tea, toast and medicaments quelled the hangover down to a muffled sob. She grabbed the toothbrush and headed to the bathroom, then returned and changed.

My turn for the same outfit two days in a row, she thought. Serves me right for teasing her. And I didn’t even have the fun to justify it.

Another rap on the door, a different rhythm this time and higher up.

‘Yes, Gwen, I am alive and decent,’ she called.

‘Good morning,’ said Gwen, opening the door. ‘Do you need to borrow any make-up?’

‘Let me take a look,’ said Iris, stepping over to the mirror. ‘No, I think I can pass for a human female today.’

‘Do you want to swing by theCeciliaand change?’

‘I don’t want to be late,’ said Iris. ‘I’m setting you an example, after all.’

‘I learn so much from you,’ said Gwen. ‘In that case, let’s go.’