‘Mrs Smith,’ said Mrs Piggott to the clanking golem before her, ‘the new Iremonger here wishes her birth object to be locked away safely, if you please.’

Without pause, Mrs Smith drew out a particular key from one of the many key branches and walked to the back of Mrs Piggott’s office which was entirely made up of many drawers of varying sizes, each with a lock to it, and each with an identical brass knob and a small brass bell suspended by a stiff wire which sounded whenever the drawer was touched. And beside all these drawers, like a warder staring at convicts, loomed a metal safe as tall as the ceiling and as wide as Mrs Smith. Mrs Smith unlocked a drawer, its little bell rang, she pulled it open and took from inside it a small wooden toy train, which she handed without expression to Mrs Piggott.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Mrs Piggott, ‘that belonged to poor Iremonger, didn’t it? Well, unhappy thing, she shan’t be needing it now. Here, Mrs Smith.’

She handed the other woman the matchbox, it was put in the drawer and locked away, the bell of my drawer growing quiet very quick. Well, I thought, so what.

‘And thus, Iremonger, all is concluded. I bid you good luck. Welcome to Heap House.’

5

A COMB CUT BIT KEY 1⅝’

A statement by Solly Smith, Lock Keeper, Forlichingham Park, London, discovered after her death, locked in a cellar strongroom inside a safebox, within an iron box, padlocked

Count of Myself

I Solly. Solly the lock.

Very private. All locked up. I don’t say nothing. I keep it in. Locked. Too many words. If you ask me. Far too many. Lock ’em up. Never tell no one. Solly don’t let a word out. All those secrets. Keeping them private. I locked myself up years ago, haven’t let myself out. Was unlocked once. That was nice, lovely yes, name of William Hobbin. Died soon after, dry cholera, locked away for ever from me, vault.

I did the locks with Father. Father did locks. Father got the poison at last, lead in his blood, locking him away from me too. Then not a word ever, all shut up. No words from me. I shut up. Then Piggott comes at last. She gives me the keys, she turns the movement in me, she makes the play with oil, gains the strike, she looks at my face as if to say, ‘A brass escutcheon, let’s polish that up.’ She gives me keys. Never to be locked out ever again. Nothing locked from me.