almost as if he were standing right in front of her with his bright, dark eyes and neat moustache. He would have been pacing up and down on the hearth rug in his study, the walls hung with maps and treasures he had brought back from distant lands, relating one of his many stories about battles and military campaigns. Keep calm, keep your head, keep a stiff upper lip: those were his mottoes. But the truth was, the more she ignored the other shop girls, the worse they seemed to become. They said she was haughty and high-and-mighty, and called her the name she hated most, ‘Sour-milk Sophie’. Not for the first time, she reflected that perhaps Papa’s advice was not entirely helpful when it came to dealing with horrid shop girls.
Now, she turned away and went out into the passage, the boy trailing behind her. He looked so miserable that she felt a twinge of guilt for having assumed that he would make fun of her, when, in fact, it seemed that they were in the same boat.
‘I shouldn’t pay any attention to them,’ she said.
The boy tried to smile. ‘I really wasn’t spying on you – honest, I wasn’t,’ he said anxiously. ‘I just wanted to finish my serial. I didn’t even notice you were there. It’s the latest Montgomery Baxter.’ Seeing that she looked blank, he went on: ‘It’s about a detective. He’s only a boy, you see, but somehow he always solves the crime and outwits the villain, even when no one else can.’ He beamed at her enthusiastically and, rather to her surprise, Sophie found herself smiling back. ‘I just had to find somewhere out of sight to finish it, so Mr Cooper didn’t catch me reading. Anyway, I’m sorry I tripped you up,’ he finished.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Sophie. She held out her hand politely, like Miss Pennyfeather had taught her. ‘I’m Sophie Taylor. I’m in the Millinery Department.’ She had already learned that using her full name, Taylor-Cavendish, would do her no favours here at Sinclair’s. It was safer to stick to plain old Taylor.
‘Billy Parker, apprentice porter,’ he explained, accepting her hand and giving it a firm shake.
‘Parker? Then are you –?’
‘Related to Sidney Parker? Yes. He’s my uncle, worse luck,’ Billy said, grimacing. ‘Oh cripes, and here he comes now,’ he murmured in a lower voice, hastily stuffing the creased story-paper into his pocket as a man came striding towards them along the passageway.
Like everyone else at Sinclair’s, Sophie already knew exactly who Sidney Parker was. He was Head Doorman, in charge of the whole team of doormen and porters, and Mr Cooper’s right-hand man. Tall and handsome in a bullish sort of way, he was impossible to miss in his immaculate uniform. With his hat perfectly brushed, his buttons gleaming and his glossy black moustache always smoothed into place, he couldn’t have been more different from his untidy nephew.
‘Good morning, miss,’ he said, sweeping off his hat with the respectful manner he used for all ladies. Then he turned to Billy. ‘Where do you think you’ve been? Stand up straight, lad – and cheer up, can’t you? You look like a wet weekend.’
He winked at Sophie as though they were sharing a joke at Billy’s expense and then swung the door that led to the shop floor open for her with exaggerated politeness. Throwing a quick smile over her shoulder to Billy, she walked out of the passageway.
Billy gazed after Sophie as she vanished through the door. She was the first girl in the whole place who hadn’t treated him like he was dirt on the bottom of her shoe. With her golden hair, he decided she looked rather like the heroine of the Montgomery Baxter story he had just been reading. That would, of course, make him the brave boy detective who saves her from deadly peril. He was just beginning to consider exactly what that peril might be when he was brought back to earth by a sharp cuff on the back of the head from Uncle Sid.
‘Don’t pretend to me that you haven’t been larking about again, boy,’ he said curtly. ‘I know everything that goes on in this place, and don’t you forget it. You want to pull your socks up otherwise you’ll be out on your ear. Now shift yourself. Go and help George with the deliveries.’
Billy went down the passage towards the door to the stable-yard, muttering the rudest words he could think of under his breath as soon as Uncle Sid was out of earshot. He couldn’t believe that just two weeks ago, he had actually been looking forward to starting work and doing a man’s job. Now he was here, and all he did was spend each day bored senseless, being treated like everyone’s dogsbody, or getting told off. He’d already had his wages docked twice by Mr Cooper – once for being late and once for having dirty boots. Mum was forever harping on about how lucky he was to have such a fine start, but as far as he was concerned, he’d rather be back at school doing sums. At least he’d been half decent at those.
The stable-yard was warm and damp and smelled of horses and hay. George was sitting alone in a patch of sunlight, squinting at a newspaper, his pipe clamped between his teeth. Blackie, the boiler-room cat, was nearby, thoughtfully washing one paw.
‘Here you are, young feller,’ George said, patting a packing crate beside him. ‘Pull yourself up a pew.’
Suddenly, Billy felt better. It was much nicer here in the stable-yard, away from Uncle Sid and those awful giggling shop girls, and he liked George, who never jeered at him.
‘You’ve got good eyes – read us this bit out,’ said George, pointing with the stem of his pipe.
Billy sat down on the packing case, took the newspaper that George was holding out to him and read aloud:
‘Fancy that,’ said George admiringly. ‘And to think that all that’s going to be coming through here this very morning, jewels that have belonged to queens and the like.’
‘Look at the picture’ said Billy, and they bent over the paper to squint at the blurry photograph.
‘Don’t look much like any sparrow I’ve ever seen,’ said George, contemplating it. ‘A different tune every time, eh? Now however do you reckon they get it to do that?’
At that moment, a cart loaded with boxes of merchandise rumbled into the stable-yard. ‘Shake a leg, George!’ called a voice from behind them. ‘The gaffer wants this lot unloaded sharpish.’
George winked at Billy and then heaved himself to his feet. ‘Come on pal,’ he said. ‘Let’s get on with this and then we’ll finish reading later on.’
Saying that was all very well, but Billy found it was difficult to concentrate on boxes and deliveries. He kept picturing immense diamonds glinting in the dark tunnels of an Indian mine. Then there was Marie Antoinette’s tiara. How had the Captain come to own it? He imagined a grand Paris auction house, or a furtive transaction with a cloaked stranger in a foreign tavern. Busy with these speculations, it seemed no time at all before the boxes were unloaded, and then two shiny black motor vans were pulling into the yard, each driven by a man in white gloves. George nodded to Billy, who stood staring, fascinated by the thought of the priceless treasures that must be within.
But then Uncle Sid strode up. ‘No hanging about, if you please. This isn’t a job for the likes of you. Hop it. Find yourself something useful to do.’
Obediently, Billy walked away, but inwardly he was bristling. At the
