Billie pauses, thinking of the photographs she has seen of Isabel Tizón de Rivas. She is an angular woman whose brittle figure is the product of rigorous dieting and a punishingschedule of exercise. She wears sharply tailored pantsuits in solid colors, the perfect background for displaying her collection of jewels. She frequently turns up at birthday parties and graduations, making a point of wearing whatever gift the godchild’s parents have sent her. Some play it safe with small pieces in the iconic Cartier panther motif. Those who know her well or are particularly interested in substantial favors from her, send more elaborate offerings. Today’s hosts sent a brooch and bracelet of vintage tutti-frutti.
“And where is she today?” Constance presses.
“At the home of the Ketcham-Flints. Cassandra Ketcham-Flint is Isabel’s goddaughter, and it is her son’s birthday party. Cassandra is married to Nigel Ketcham-Flint, an English race car driver, and they make their home in Kew. Julían Domingo Rosas does not care for England and never accompanies his wife when she travels here. Nigel Ketcham-Flint does not like his wife’s godmother and refuses to let her security detail in the house, considering it a disruption. As far as the family, the birthday boy is four today and he has a three-month-old sister. The party includes other children from the nursery school and their siblings; friends from play groups and various lessons, such as Mandarin and harpsichord; and mothers and babies from Cassandra’s antenatal group. There are seventy-five children on the guest list.”
“Anyone who signs up their kid for harpsichord at the age of four deserves to have someone murdered in their house,” Natalie puts in.
Billie carries on. “Most of the children will be accompanied by nannies or other childminders, and at least five ofthese are Pemberton nannies. The theme of the party is old-fashioned circus. There are fire-eaters, jugglers, and contortionists on the lawn, as well as a petting zoo and bouncy castle with a carnival for games at the bottom of the garden and a continuous series of entertainers. Inside the house will be refreshment rooms, baby eurhythmics classes, and a quiet room for napping.”
Just as she concludes, the car stops on a side street near the house.
“We are here,” Constance tells them. She adjusts her Pemberton cape and alights from the car, making use of her walking stick. Behind them, an identical car parks and two others get out—Mary Alice and Helen in Pemberton uniforms, also with wigs in varying shades of red. In an enormous house with dozens of guests, witnesses will never be able to tell four young redheaded women in matching uniforms apart. Their statements to investigators will contradict and confuse, exactly the effect the Museum is hoping to create.
The drivers, Museum members from the Acquisitions department, wordlessly open the car boots to extract a pair of prams that are expensive, highly polished, and gently worn. New prams might attract attention, and these should go unremarked. They are also empty. Nannies cannot enter a private party without at least the appearance of bringing in a child. After much discussion, it was decided it would be foolish to use mannequin babies and unethical to use real ones. So these prams are Trojan horses, allowing the nannies to enterbearing gifts—actual gifts for the birthday child purchased from Hamleys and Harrods and wrapped in Paddington paper.
As they assemble on the pavement, the others make scant eye contact with Billie. It is her fault they are here, working as support for Constance rather than making a kill of their own. They are nothing more than a piece of theatre, a bit of visual trickery to keep the guests uncertain of what they’ve seen, and after all the months of training and the success of their first mission, it stings to have failed so badly on their second.
With one final nod, they each depart from the rendezvous point on foot. They will enter through the garden gate, slipping into the party already in full swing. Mary Alice goes first, maneuvering one of the prams, followed by Natalie, then Helen. Only Constance and Billie are left, and as Billie prepares to go, Constance lays a hand on her arm.
“Miss Webster, I know you think it is a punishment that you are here, supporting me in this mission rather than carrying it out yourself. I want you to know that it is.”
Billie says nothing. Shame curdles any speech she might have made.
“All of us make mistakes, and you were fortunate that yours was not worse. You killed an unsavory young man, but he was far too insignificant for our purposes. We might have targeted him at some point, or he might have turned his life around and escaped our attention. It was, frankly, a waste of your talents. And I am sorry to think the cause may be distraction.”
She pauses, letting the implication sink in.Taverner. Thesubtext is that Billie rushed the job because she was thinking of a man.
She says nothing and Constance continues to speak, certain the barb has pricked just where it should.
“When you were recruited, I had high hopes for you. I still do. But you faltered at the first jump and nearly fell.”
Billie remembers the crisis of confidence she suffered during training. The possibility of a life bigger than she had ever imagined had been dangled in front of her, dazzling and almost within reach until Constance, in a smooth and silken voice, offered to take it all away with the suggestion she would be more comfortable in secretarial school.Perhaps you’d like bookkeeping. That can be rather fulfilling, I’m told.The possibility that she could fail at the only thing she’d ever really wanted had been enough to push Billie into becoming more than she’d imagined she could. And now it was in jeopardy. Again.
“You took the correction I offered and made something of yourself,” Constance went on. “Now you have tripped again, and the question is, Will you find your footing or will you stay down?”
“I want this job,” Billie tells her. “You know that.”
“And yet something within you is struggling.” Constance tips her head and considers Billie with birdy, beady eyes. “Is there a part of you that wants to be normal, Miss Webster? Is that what this dalliance is about? Do you want the proverbial picket fence? Baking lemon drizzle cakes and picking out furniture with someone?”
“No,” Billie says emphatically.
“It is perfectly natural if you do,” Constance assures her. “Most people are not like us. Most people want those things.”
“I don’t,” Billie insists.
“Good. You cannot reconcile them with our life, not if you are a woman.”
Billie’s eyes widen. “That’s sexist.”
“No, it is pragmatic. A man can easily vanish for months on end for work. Women’s obligations are different. Such disappearances, away from home and family, would excite too much interest, raise too many questions. We will not interfere in your private life so long as your private life does not interfere in the work. But we are also realists, Miss Webster. We know what the world is.”
“So do I.”
Constance pauses, the expression on her face almost sympathetic. “Do not grieve for the life you have not chosen. Very many people can reproduce, and they quite frequently do. We have different gifts and we are called to a different path. The world needs us, Miss Webster, to remove what stands between good and decent people and chaos. We are necessary monsters.”
And in that moment, the something within Billie that allowed herself to be soft and human and hopeful gets ruthlessly strangled. She will never again allow anything to interfere with the mission.
Constance carries on smoothly. “The job, Miss Webster, is everything. Today you have the chance to rectify the mistakes of your last mission. I will dispatch our target myself, and you will observe. I shall be making a full report to the disciplinary committee when it is finished.”