A Spy in the House (18 page)

That much made sense.

“You are not part of our community; you speak only English; you were surprised — even upset — to be recognized as mixed race.”

She longed to defend herself, although what he said was true. Nevertheless . . . “I’m not ashamed of having a Chinese father,” she said carefully. “But most English are bigoted: they think that foreigners, especially those with darker skin, are inferior. They think we have weak minds and poor morals.”

“Of course; that is something against which we all struggle here.”

“But my life is among the English now. If I told them of my mixed blood, it would change the way they think about me: it would prevent my finding work, other than the most menial and poorly paid service; it would alienate my friends; others would despise me and treat me as less than a person. I can’t afford that!”

“Yet that is the fate of most Asiatics — indeed, most dark-skinned people — in this country. You are unusual only because your race is not so strongly written in your features. Compared to most young Chinese women, you are doubly blessed and cursed: you have the luxury of being able to deny your heritage if you choose.”

She flung out her hands, trying to make him understand. “But I’m not fully one of them either! To the Chinese, I’m only half Chinese, and to Caucasians, my blood is tainted. I have no family — no one like me — I don’t belong anywhere!”

He looked at her for a long moment. “I see your point. Although I hope that one day you will come to believe differently.”

Mary looked at him, bewildered. “But how . . . ?”

He ignored this. “So in order to gain employment, you severed your connections with Poplar and Limehouse and began to pass as Caucasian.”

She nodded slowly.

“And people believe that you are an English girl?” His voice was gently skeptical.

“Not English, though often they are satisfied when I tell them my mother was Irish. Others assume I have some French or Spanish blood, or some other continental mixture.” Her mouth twisted. “And while Europeans, too, are suspect in many circles, they still rank higher than — the truth.”

The word
truth
hung in the air, heavy and burdensome. As a young girl, someone — her mother? — had tried to teach Mary that “the truth shall set you free.” She didn’t see how that could possibly be the case. It was just another cliché for the naive — or the privileged.

Mr. Chen cleared his throat gently. “We have digressed. I remember your father because he was an unusually tall and handsome fellow; everybody knew who he was, even if they did not know him personally.”

She forced her mind back to the present question: how Mr. Chen knew who she was. Yes, his explanation seemed logical.

“I only met your father a few times, and once I met you, too. I doubt you will remember; you were a small child of three or four.” He smiled slightly. “But you are recognizably the same child, Mary Lang.”

She took it in slowly. Her mind felt sluggish, as though working at a fraction of its usual speed. Everything seemed to make sense. Too much sense?

A sudden thought darted into her mind. “If that’s the case,” she said, her voice high and harsh, “if you care so much for the Lascar community, why didn’t you help us after he died? Why did you leave my mother to suffer and to starve, and to — to —” She was shaking now, with anger.

Mr. Chen’s expression was somber. “That was a tragedy.”

“Of course it was! But it needn’t have happened!”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are correct.” He paused for a while, then said, “After your father was reported dead, a lady from a nearby church went to see your mother. She wanted a maid-of-all-work, and she offered to buy you.

“Your mother was extremely angry. She refused the offer and ordered the lady to leave at once. The lady was very offended and decided that if your mother would not accept her offer, which she thought generous, your mother should receive no assistance at all.”

He seemed to have an answer for everything. And yet . . . “What about you?” she asked stubbornly. “You knew so much, but you refused to help us, too?”

Mr. Chen looked ashamed. “I was afraid. The lady’s church helps to support this refuge. I feared that they would refuse to donate to the refuge if we helped you.”

His shame seemed genuine. As his words filtered through her, Mary realized that she believed him. Slowly, she sat down again. Her hands ached from clutching the wooden chair so fiercely. “So you knew my father.”

He rose and went to a tall filing cabinet. “For several years now, I have kept a file of ‘lost Lascars’ — men who vanished on sea voyages. Although sailing is a dangerous profession, there have been a number of mysterious disappearances of foreign sailors in particular, all surrounded by rumor. The men at the docks gossip, you understand. These lost Lascars have certain things in common. I believe your father was one of that group.

“But he was also different,” continued Mr. Chen. “Before setting sail in 1848, your father paid me a visit. He felt quite strongly that he might not return from that voyage, but he didn’t want to alarm your mother. He left this cigar box in my keeping. He told me that if he returned, he would reclaim it; if he did not, I was to give it to you when I thought the time was right.” Mr. Chen looked somber. “I was too afraid to help your family, and I failed to give this to you before you disappeared. I cannot forgive myself for those failures. But you are here now.

“Your father loved you dearly, Miss Lang. This is his legacy to you.”

So many questions crowded her mouth, but Mary couldn’t take her eyes from the cigar box. She simply stared, terrified that this was a hoax — or that the moment she stretched out her greedy hand to touch the box, it would vanish or crumble.

The muffled sound of the doorbell interrupted them. “I shall leave you here to examine your inheritance,” said Mr. Chen gently. She couldn’t manage a reply, but when she next looked up, he had vanished.

The cigar box was tied roundabout with twine. As Mary unfastened it, she suddenly remembered her father teaching her to tie different knots: bowlines, figure eights, reef knots. Her hands shook as she raised the lid, nearly tearing it from its cardboard hinges. The topmost item was an envelope addressed simply to “Mary” in careful, childish handwriting. From it, she removed a half sheet of paper and a separate twist of newsprint containing something seedlike.

It was so brief. Mary reread it half a dozen times, willing it each time to say something more. More about himself, more about her, more about anything at all. She didn’t realize she was crying until a tear splashed onto the page, blurring his signature.

That made her cry all the more, and her fingers shook as she opened the crumpled knot of newspaper. Inside was something she’d entirely forgotten: a small pendant of carved jade, no longer than her thumbnail. It looked like a piece of fruit — a pear, perhaps. Its chain was tarnished from long disuse, but she remembered it with a fierce stab of possessiveness. It had been hers — hers from long ago. A piece of her Chinese heritage, which she had worn on holidays. But what was it doing here? Why had her father set it aside so carefully, in a place where she might never have found it?

A quiet knock on the door made her jump and wipe her face hastily. “Yes?”

Mr. Chen came in. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Miss Lang, but I need this office to receive a business caller. Could you step into the parlor? You may take as much time as you like there.”

The word
time
suddenly recalled the whole situation. “I must go!” she gasped. How long had she been inside now?

“Really, Miss Lang, you needn’t leave.”

She tried for a smile. “On my own account, I must.” She looked down at the cigar box. It held another envelope, inscribed to her mother, and a roll of documents held with another piece of twine. “Mr. Chen,” she said, “may I leave this box with you? I can’t take it with me now.”

“Of course. It has awaited you for a decade; it will wait a little longer.”

Mary repacked the box, hesitated, then took out the pendant and put it on, sliding it beneath her collar. “Thank you,” she said huskily. “I’ll be back soon.”

Mr. Chen bowed slightly. “Until next time, Miss Lang.”

From the privacy of the carriage, James surveyed the scene before the Lascars’ refuge with narrowed eyes. He’d prolonged his interview with the warden to the point of inanity before retreating to the carriage. And now he’d been waiting for an additional half hour. It felt like much longer.

His gaze wandered to Mary’s pocketbook, neatly propped on the facing seat. Did he dare? It was certainly unfair, ungentlemanly, taking advantage, whatever one liked to call it. . . . What the hell. It was what Mary did. Aside from the usual bits and pieces — a couple of penny stamps, small coins for the omnibus, a clean handkerchief — there was a letter, postmarked yesterday.

James scanned it rapidly.
My dear Mary, I am writing to you using my new portable letter case, which is most convenient and very practical. . . .
What a nonsensical note. And what would Mary care what the old biddy did with her charges?

He had already replaced it when something made him pause. Something nagged . . . he couldn’t quite place it. He reread the letter. What kind of headmistress gloated about a writing case when she believed her pupils’ health was at risk? And who was the woman anyway? He’d have to verify an Anne Somebody as a teacher. He held the sheet up to the light of the window, all the while mocking himself. Invisible ink and encoded letters were the stuff of children’s adventure stories, not real-life investigations. Yet everything about Mary seemed a bit like an adventure.

A faint trace of lemon soap lingered in the carriage — a scent that immediately called to mind the image of Mary, wearing only her underclothes, her bare shoulders and arms luminous in the dim carriage. He hadn’t meant to gape like a schoolboy. Yet he wasn’t sorry that he had.

The sight of a large bay mare interrupted his musings. It stopped before the Lascars’ refuge and its rider, a handsome blond gentleman, was instantly familiar to James. He scowled and drew back from the window, scanning the streetscape as he did. Sure enough, a sandy-haired butcher’s boy soon appeared, dangling a basket from one arm. The boy stopped in the street, squinting at an order sheet and mouthing the items to himself. James smiled at the sight of his young accomplice: Alfred Quigley certainly had a flair for the dramatic.

When the horseman vanished inside the refuge, James checked his watch. Mary had been inside for nearly an hour. Now, with the unexpected arrival of Michael Gray, she would certainly need at least another quarter of an hour. Very well: he would reserve judgment and be productive. Think of the myriad other things he had to do today. Think of ways to find answers to his own queries. He stretched his long legs, then refolded them and realized he was grinding his teeth.

When Mary reappeared, through the front door this time, she moved as though in a trance. Her expression, normally alert, was utterly distracted. Before Barker could fold out the steps for her, James seized her by the forearms and lifted her bodily into the carriage.

She landed on the seat with a thump that raised dust from her skirts, but she didn’t protest. “You must be tired of waiting,” she said.

“A little.” His tone was surprisingly even, all things considered.

“I’m sorry.” She sounded uncharacteristically meek, but wouldn’t look him in the eye.

He waited, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Well?” he finally demanded.

“Oh — you want to hear what I learned.” Her eyes were red. Dust, perhaps.

“Yes.”

She stared out the window for a moment and seemed to focus. “Close your eyes,” she said. “I’ll tell you as I change.”

James covered his eyes for good measure and listened impatiently to her brief description of the building and the sailors’ rooms. “That’s all you saw? What took you so long?”

“Well, the warden caught me. I had to pretend I was looking for work. It’s a good thing we got the costume.” She finished buttoning her dress and ensured that the pendant was tucked out of sight.

“I suppose —” she broke off when she noticed Anne’s letter lying on the seat beside her. With a slow movement, she retrieved it and stared at it, puzzled. “This is . . . how did . . . ? You — you swine! You rummaged through my personal possessions and read my private correspondence! How
dare
you!” Her eyes narrowed, glittering with anger; her body was tense and poised to spring.

James felt a prick of shame, which he quickly smothered under righteous anger. “You are scarcely in a position to accuse me of underhanded behavior,” he retorted. “What about your secret meeting and the reason you were so long in the refuge?”