The storeroom Mickey spoke of turns out to house the boiler for the kitchen, as well as tins of tomatoes and beans, baskets heaped with onions and potatoes, and massive burlap sacks of sugar, flour and rice. There's little extra room for two women and a half-grown girl, but Henry herds them in anyway, prodding Ruthie hard in the back when she balks and snarls at him, then reaches up and unscrews the cold lightbulb from the white-painted, rust-speckled ring that holds it.

"Is that absolutely necessary?" Cora says sharply. "I assume you're planning to shut us in, so why not at least leave us some light?"

"You don't need no light to sit in here and wait," Henry says, and slams the door. There's a jingle of keys, the lock clicks, and then they hear the tramp of footsteps as he walks away, presumably to rejoin Mickey and Jess in the foyer. As soon as he's out of earshot, Ruthie loses all her fierce defiance, flings herself into Phyllis's arms, and bursts into harsh, painful sobs like the child she still is.

"I didn't mean for 'em to find out about you, Miss Baxter. Pat found your money hid in our mattress when he was playing and showed it to Auntie Jess. Frankie told him not to, but Pat's only little and he didn't listen. Auntie Jess told Mickey and then the both of 'em whaled on me until I told where I got it."

"It's all right." Phyllis smooths Ruthie's tangled hair tenderly. There's a small casement window set high in the storeroom's wall, letting in just enough moonlight for her to see the girl's shadowy outline. "You couldn't help it."

"Who is Mickey?" Cora puts in. "He seems to be in charge of this...whatever it is."

Ruthie turns her face blindly from side to side against Phyllis's breast, smearing tears and snot all over the bodice of her dress, and moves away a little from the protective circle of her arms. "He's Auntie Jess's boyfriend. He don't live with us, but you wouldn't know it, the way he sits around the place in his fuckin' undershorts and eats whatever food I get for the kids. He and Jess both do all kinds of stuff to make a living. They taught me to dip for wallets and purses like I done to you, Miss Baxter, only I ain't so good at it yet. I'm sposed to bring 'em whatever money I get, that's why they were so mad when they found out about that twenty bucks."

Horrified, Phyllis opens her mouth to tell Ruthie she can't use such coarse language in front of Lady Grantham, but is cut off by Cora, who passes right over it as if she hasn't even heard. "And how did you find this house? Miss Baxter says she didn't tell you about it."

"No, she never," Ruthie says. "But Mickey said if she worked for an English lady who was staying at the Plaza, that lady must be rich, and rich people pal around with other rich people, am I right?"

"Generally," Cora says. "Go on."

"He said there were ways to find stuff out, and he went and got Auntie Jess a set of nice clothes from somewhere. Snuck in the funeral parlour and stole 'em off a dead person, most likely. Jess can put on airs when she wants to, so she got dressed up and went to the Plaza and talked to that guy at the front, you know, the stuck-up one who acts like he's God's gift and you might as well go eat worms?"

"Who?" Cora asks, genuinely puzzled.

"The concierge, milady," Phyllis says. "He gets a bit snippy with non-paying guests."

"Yeah, him. I dunno what she said, but she got him to tell her who you were and give her the address they had for you in the city, and she and Mickey checked it out and then came back later with me and Pat. They wanted Pat to climb in the kitchen window 'cause he's the littlest, but they were scared he wouldn't be able to unlock the door once he was in. He locks himself in the toilet in our building about twice a week." Ruthie's crying again; she wipes her bare arm across her face with a wet snuffling sound, and Phyllis silently removes her handkerchief from her pocket and holds it up for Ruthie to blow her nose. "They tried to make me do it instead, but I ran and hid and watched them. They went away after a while and I thought they gave up, but it turns out they been planning this instead. I hate them."

"It's not your fault," Phyllis assures her.

"You were right too, Miss Baxter." Now Ruthie's voice is full of a hurt, weary betrayal, as if this is just the latest disappointment in a long chain that began with her birth, and that she expects to continue until her dying day. "About prison. They didn't just bring me along so you'd open the door, they did it to make me be part of it. If I tell on 'em after, or lead the cops to them, I get locked up too. Mickey said."

"We'll see who's going to prison and who isn't," Cora says briskly. "Do you know exactly what they're planning to do out there?"

"Steal stuff. I dunno what, but they got no car, so it'll have to be little stuff they can shove in a bag. Money, maybe, or jewels."

This makes Phyllis flinch, remembering the long-ago morning when she'd dropped those glittering rings and bracelets into her pockets, how she'd felt frightened and guilty and excited at the same time, dreaming about the future she'd have once she and Coyle were safely away. She wonders if Jess thinks that Mickey will marry her and give her a beautiful life with the spoils of their robbery. From their brief encounter, she suspects a woman like Jess is more realistic and less trusting than a lovesick Phyllis Baxter, drunk on her recent discovery of sex and the thrill of being wanted by someone so handsome, but stranger things have happened.

"D'you think there's anything in here we can eat without cooking it?" Ruthie is asking Cora. "Me and Frankie ate raw oatmeal once when we were real hungry. Turns out that's a bad idea."

"I don't know, darling, but you're welcome to look if you like," Cora says, and Ruthie turns and begins pawing through the nearest set of open shelves, sniffing at packets and boxes in the near-dark.

"Milady," Phyllis says quietly, seeing that Ruthie will be occupied for the next little while. Reminiscing about her own past has made her think of something, and she wants Cora's opinion. "Henry had the keys to the storeroom, did you notice?"

"Yes, what about it?" Cora edges closer so Phyllis can speak directly into her ear without alerting Ruthie.

"They belong to the housekeeper," Phyllis says. "Mrs Hughes never takes her keys off her belt from the time she dresses in the morning until she goes to bed at night, and I'm sure Mrs Fletcher doesn't either. How did Henry get them?"

"Oh my God," Cora says. "You don't think they hurt Mrs Fletcher and took them, do you?"

"No," Phyllis says, "I think it's more likely they were given them by someone inside the house, who also arranged for the staff not to be here. They can't possibly have overpowered everyone, even with a gun and a knife. There are too many people on staff for that, and there would be some sign of a struggle. I've seen a person stabbed with a blade before, when—when I was away. It was messy."

"Are the staff all in on it?" Cora sounds shocked.

"I suppose they could be," Phyllis says. "But I was thinking...Mrs Levinson said something about an unauthorised night off, but what if they're actually having an authorised night off because someone told them they could? All of them live out except for Mrs Fletcher, Mr Giles and Miss Snyder, and Miss Snyder won't be here until tomorrow. They might be at home right now, having their tea and thinking everything is all right."

"But if they had all the keys, then why would they use Ruthie to get us to open the door? They could have just let themselves in at any time, and we would have come in to find the house already robbed."

"I don't know, milady," Phyllis says. "Perhaps if we both think on it, we'll come up with the answer."

"We could ask Ruthie," Cora points out. "She seems to be a font of information on all sorts of subjects."

"If she knew, she would have told us already, I think." Phyllis pauses. "I'm really terribly sorry about this, milady. I know you said it wasn't my fault, but if I hadn't got involved..."

"Baxter, I appreciate your willingness to accept the blame, but now really isn't the time to quarrel about it. Let's just try to get through this, all right?"

"Yes, of course," Phyllis says, just as Ruthie concludes her search of the shelves and turns round again, holding a dark, square object clasped in her hands.

"Found a box of raisins," she says thickly, through a sticky mouthful of them. "Anyone want some?"

"That's very generous, but Miss Baxter and I aren't hungry," Cora says.

"Suit yourselves," Ruthie says, and stuffs her mouth again. "What are we talking about? I wasn't paying attention."

"Just..." Cora drifts to a halt, apparently at a loss for words, and Phyllis steps in to help her.

"We were wondering about that window," she says. "It's a bit small, but perhaps if we could get up to it, we could crawl through and jump."

"Oh, that? If I climb up on the water tank I bet I can get it open," Ruthie says, and sets aside her raisins on the nearest shelf. "Someone gimme a boost."

Cora seems confused by this, but Phyllis, who often played out as a child and has watched boys scale walls and fences many times, knows exactly what Ruthie means to do. She laces her hands together and Ruthie puts a bare foot in the cradle they form, and with that support manages to get hold of the edge of the boiler's casing—carefully avoiding the array of copper pipes sticking out of the top and sides—and pull herself up to kneel with one knee on the tank and one on the windowsill.

"It's not painted shut, is it?" Phyllis asks anxiously, watching Ruthie push at the window. It's easier to see the girl there, limned by the muted light coming through the small rectangular pane, and it's clear she's struggling.

"Nah, just ain't been opened in a long time." Ruthie blows dirt and cobwebs away from the casement and tries again, and this time the window reluctantly inches upward and outward. The hinges let out a rusty shriek, and all three of them freeze, frightened that Henry or Mickey or Jess may be lurking outside the door and hear, but nothing happens. Ruthie leans out precariously through the opening she's created, making Phyllis's chest clench with anxiety, and then both Phyllis and Cora hear her muffled voice, as if she's speaking in low tones to someone outside.

A moment later, she pulls herself back in and looks over her shoulder at them, holding onto the windowsill lightly with one hand.

"Hey Miss Baxter, there's some guy out here says his name is Calvin. You know him?"