Theft of Life by Imogen Robertson

the end of Ivy Lane into Paternoster Row. The maid, Penny, who served in the shop when needed, was standing on the doorstep looking up and down the street. Francis made her a shallow bow. ‘Miss Weeks, if you are looking for a young lady and gentleman who just dashed out of here, they have taken refuge at Mr Hinckley’s. I have come to inform their guardian.’
    The girl puffed out her cheeks, relieved. ‘Little devils. I only turned my back a moment to serve Mrs Rule.’ She looked at Francis for a long moment then stepped aside to allow him into the shop. ‘Mrs Smith is upstairs with Mrs Service in her private parlour. You know where that is, of course.’ She winked and Francis passed her with the barest nod and climbed the stairs to the first floor two at a time.
    Mrs Smith was serving tea and bread and butter to a far older lady. Mrs Smith rose as soon as he entered and took his hand. She was a good-looking woman of not more than thirty, plumper than most Englishwomen, and with a pale, heart-shaped face. She was soberly dressed and her chestnut hair, as always, a little untidy. She smiled a great deal and there was something in her walk that suggested she might be about to start dancing at any moment. She was in truth a spinster, but like other ladies who went into business, she took the title ‘Mrs’ as a sign of her independence. Her guest was a thin, gentle-looking female with a friendly smile. The introductions were made, and when Francis explained his mission, Mrs Service looked more sorrowful than angry and put down her cup.
    ‘Thank you, Mr Glass, for coming to fetch me. I am very sorry that the young people have been a trouble to you.’
    He bowed, enjoying the sound of her neat clipped vowels and the evenness of tone. ‘Not at all, madam. Their company is … enlivening. And please do not cut your visit to Mrs Smith short on my account. I am happy to keep watch over the young people until you are ready to collect them.’ Mrs Service looked uncertain, then grateful and gave him her thanks. He was ready to leave again with the satisfaction of a Good Samaritan, but in the doorway Mrs Smith stopped him.
    ‘Francis, dear …’ She was blushing furiously, spots of red showing through the thin pale weave of her skin in a way Francis thought charming. ‘I have something here I wish you to read. It was given to me by an acquaintance and is not at all in my usual line, but I would be most grateful to have the authority of your opinion.’
    Francis gave her a slightly weary look. ‘Eliza …’
    ‘Please, Francis! I hardly ever ask you …’
    He lowered his voice. ‘Eliza Smith, you know that is not true. What of that novel of Mrs Bentley’s you gave me? You told
her
you thought it very good, though again more in my line than yours, when you knew very well that it was terrible.’
    She blushed again, but her eyes sparkled. ‘Oh, Francis, that was at least a year ago!’
    ‘And she has only just stopped calling on me every week.’
    ‘Oh dear, and I can imagine how polite you were to her every time she visited! I know it was a
little
naughty of me, but she is one of my best customers. And such a good charitable lady. I couldn’t risk offending her, poor dear. And this is quite a different matter.’ She became more serious. ‘Quite different. I wasn’t sure whether I could ask you to read it, but God sent you to me today, Francis.’
    ‘Eliza, we see each other three times a week.’ He spoke even more quietly, looking up quickly to be certain Mrs Service could not hear him. ‘And it was not God, but a pair of rather ill-behaved children.’
    ‘He moves in mysterious ways!’ She smiled then looked at him with a sort of silent pleading that had never failed in all the years they had known each other.
    ‘Very well.’
    Mrs Smith wrinkled her nose at him, and he waited as she went to her desk and returned with a manuscript gathered together in a dark brown leather portfolio. ‘Thank you,’ she