A Spy in the House (20 page)

Cass rose obediently. “Yes, Miss Quinn.”

“Thank you for telling me what you did.”

Cass shook her head vehemently. “I had to tell you, miss.”

They left it at that.

Lying in bed that night, mulling over the day’s events, Mary found it impossible not to speculate on the contents of the cigar box from the soldiers’ home. It would contain an account, certainly, of where her father had gone — perhaps with a map. It would explain why he had feared for his safety and who was responsible for his endangerment. It might tell her more about who he was — and, by extension, about herself, too. What would she do with that knowledge? How would she negotiate the truth about her father and fit it into her life now? She hadn’t a clue. But soon, she’d know. She’d have some of the answers she so needed.

Mary fell asleep wearing the pendant, her fingers curled round the jade carving. She longed to examine her father’s papers and rather resented the current case that stood in her way. Yet she had a duty to perform. And, as Mr. Chen had pointed out, she had already waited a decade.
Two days,
she told herself.
Two days left.

Despite the turmoil of the previous day, Mary had slept well. She had ample time before breakfast to post a brief note to James describing the conversation between Michael and Mr. Thorold and suggesting a meeting after luncheon that day. On her return from the pillar box, she found Michael alone in the front hall, dressed to go out and looking worried. On seeing her, he turned pale and promptly dropped his walking stick with a loud clatter.

“Good morning, Mr. Gray. Beautiful day, is it not?” Of course it wasn’t: it was humid and gray, and the air was already thick with the noxious smell of the river.

“Yes, glorious!” Michael returned automatically, bending to pick up his cane.

Hah. With elaborate gestures, Mary stripped off her gloves and unpinned her hat, watching him in the mirror. “What have you planned for today, Mr. Gray?” She spoke quite loudly. “Anything of special interest?”

He frowned and moved as if to shush her. “No — only the usual, I assure you.”

“
Only
the usual?”

“Yes.” His voice was hoarse.

She smiled coyly. “How very modest of you, Mr. Gray.”

He glanced upstairs with something close to desperation. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Miss Quinn.”

On impulse, she whirled about, all mock flirtation arrested. She took five rapid steps across the hall, bringing her face to face with the unfortunate secretary. “I mean, sir, your clandestine meetings with Miss Thorold.”

He was visibly staggered. “I — that’s the most absurd accusation —”

Her quiet voice sliced through his bluster. “Two days ago, at the park? And yesterday morning, in the breakfast room?”

Silence. His Adam’s apple bobbed rapidly. She kept a careful eye on the hand that clutched the cane, white-knuckled. “Did you really think to use me as your dupe, Mr. Gray?”

His eyes were wide, frantic.

“It’s such an old ploy, flirting with the poor, desperate paid companion. She’ll be putty in your hands and not notice a thing.” She narrowed her eyes. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Gray?”

His face was a dull red. “Miss Quinn . . .”

“Save your breath!”

Obediently, he fell silent.

“And, of course,” she murmured, “these meetings are partly related to your visit to the Lascars’ refuge yesterday.”

Once again, he was shaken. He made no attempt to confirm or deny her statement — merely stared at her, pupils dilated.

Mary waited. She needed answers, information,
something.
What was the plan? The silence stretched out, filled only by the steady tick of the grandfather clock.

Finally, he muttered, “I suppose you’re going directly to Thorold with all of this.”

She held his gaze for another moment. She was good at bluffing; always had been. Yet she still lacked enough information to act decisively. Perhaps showing her hand had been a mistake.

“Let’s be off.” The voice came from the staircase, low and tense. It was so unlike Thorold’s usual friendly bluster that Mary only recognized the speaker when he came into view.

She bowed to him graciously. “Good morning, sir.”

His gaze skimmed over her blindly. “Morning, Miss — er — hm.” He wrenched open the front door. “Now, Gray.”

Michael fell into step behind him, his frantic gaze still fixed on Mary. Good. Let him fret. With her sweetest smile, she bid them both good day and passed on into the breakfast room.

James was even more efficient than she’d hoped. Mary had just consumed boiled eggs and hot rolls and was sipping a cup of chocolate when a footman approached her, bearing a small square of white on a tray. “By messenger, Miss Quinn.”

The note — if it could be dignified with such a term — was addressed in James’s strong hand and entirely in character:
Agreed.
Incredulously, Mary turned the sheet over, looking for even one stray dot of ink. “I don’t suppose the messenger is waiting for a reply,” she said drily.

The footman’s face — was it William or John? It was difficult to tell when their hair was powdered — was perfectly impassive. “No, miss.”

She crumpled the note into her pocket just in time for Angelica’s entrance. At the sight of her companion, Angelica stopped short. “Oh.” Although it was only just nine o’clock, she was fully dressed in a pretty but plain gown with her hair pulled neatly back and up. It was such a contrast to her usual elaborate and late toilette that she blushed and seemed to feel the need to explain herself. “I was just . . . going to have a cup of coffee before going for a walk,” she said lamely.

Mary nodded. “It’s not a bad morning for a walk.”

Angelica seized the neutral statement with relief. “Is it? Nicer than yesterday, I hope.” She filled a plate from the buffet: eggs, bacon, kidneys, tomatoes, a hot roll, and a muffin. When she sat down, as far from Mary as possible, she blinked at the contents of the plate in surprise.

Mary hid a smile. “Shall I pour a cup of coffee for you?”

Angelica looked chagrined. “Oh, there’s no need.”

But Mary was already up, and when she set down the cup, she noticed that Angelica was biting her lips. “Have you anything planned for today?”

Angelica blushed deep pink and dropped her fork on the carpet. She looked as though she might burst into tears. “What do you mean?” The question began as a hiccup and ended in a gulp.

It was fascinating, really, to see her so thoroughly rattled. What on earth had happened? Or was about to happen? Mary was beginning to feel like a bit of a bully. She had planned to grill Angelica on her movements but instead changed her question to, “Any invitations, or anything I can help you with?”

Angelica shot her a look that bordered on grateful. “No, I thank you.”

“If you would be so kind to excuse me, then . . .”

“Of course. I shall not require your company today.”

Mary rose. She had to pass Angelica before exiting the breakfast room, and as she drew near, the girl held out an uncertain hand. “But I — that is, I do hope — Miss Quinn . . .”

“Yes?”

“I do hope that we may become better friends?”

Mary stared at Angelica’s outstretched fingers — the same fingers that had attacked her burn. This must be a ploy to distract her, akin to Michael’s flirtation. Yet just as Angelica began timidly to withdraw her hand, Mary took it, and they shook hands. “I hope so, too.”

Half an hour later, the front door clicked open and then shut with a sharp bang — an indication of Angelica’s nervousness. Mary needed only a moment to don her hat and gloves. In fact, she was almost too soon: when she opened the door, Angelica was still only sixty yards down the street and glancing behind her in the guiltiest manner imaginable.

Angelica took the same route she had two days ago, arriving at the corner of Sloane Square. Michael was already there, waiting for her. They exchanged a few words before he helped her into a waiting hansom and they joined the slow plod of vehicular traffic. Mary did likewise.

To her surprise, Angelica and Michael drove northeast. The broad thoroughfares and garden squares of Belgravia took them through Green Park and up into the pungent, chaotic density of Soho. They worked their way up the Tottenham Court Road, gliding through Bloomsbury into marshy Pentonville. When they reached the red-bricked density of Holloway, Mary was beginning to wonder whether she had enough in her purse to pay for this extended tour of the unbeautiful northern suburbs of London. Worse yet, had Michael and Angelica spotted her, and were they leading her on a wild-goose chase? She was genuinely surprised when their cab drew up outside a squat Anglican church just off the Seven Sisters Road.

Michael alighted, looking serious. As she descended from the cab, Angelica looked even less at ease: although veiled, her stiff shoulders and folded arms showed what she thought of the streetscape. Michael paid the driver. He and Angelica conferred for a moment, he appearing to lose patience and she finally settling matters with a sharp nod. With a glance about — Mary remained in her cab — Michael gave Angelica his arm and led her inside.

After a few minutes, Mary deemed it safe to follow. The street was busy with itinerant vendors — watercress girls, rag-and-bone men, and such — and a hundred yards down the street an organ grinder had set up, to the delight of a houseful of children, all leaning precariously from a first-floor window.

Inside the building it was dark, and after raising her veil, it took a moment for Mary’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. The church was deeper than it looked. Michael and Angelica were nowhere in sight, but as she passed through a second set of doors into the sanctuary, she saw at the farthest end a middle-aged man in a cassock, leafing through a prayer book.

A slight rustling by her elbow made her turn and look . . . down. Although slightly below average height, Mary found herself towering over the old widow on her right. The woman was dressed in heavy black mourning, and in the gloom of the church, her face had a waxy, greenish tint.

“You’d like a pew, dear?” The woman’s voice was thin and cracked.

Of course: the pew attendant. “Thank you, but I only came in to light a candle and have a quiet moment.”

The old lady’s face seemed to deflate, and she quickly turned away.

“Oh — wait!” Mary fished a few coins from her pocketbook. “Please — take this.” How careless of her to forget. Being a pew opener was one of the few privileges of widows, a sort of publicly acceptable form of begging.

The woman’s hand snapped closed round hers with fierce eagerness and she gasped, rather than said, “God bless you, m’dear.”

Mary was trapped by the woman’s grip for several moments. “Not at all,” she said gently, easing her hand free.

“You’ve not come for the service, then?”

What sort of church service? “Not really . . .”

“Ah. I thought as much. When you see two like that, slippin’ in so sly, you can be sure they’ll not be followed by family.” Her eyes, now rather animated, raked Mary up and down. “Not that you look like family, dark like that; Scotch, are you?”

She had to be certain of the woman’s meaning. “You’re referring to the couple who just came in?”

“Of course! Fine-lookin’ pair, them two.” The woman squinted into Mary’s eyes. “Not Scotch, eh? There’s a deal of Italians now livin’ down Soho way, so m’niece tells me. But you sound English.”

“My mother was Irish,” Mary said automatically. So much for Michael and Angelica being involved in her father’s schemes.

The woman crowed. “Irish! I should’ve knew it. Black Irish they call it, don’t they? You’ve got that look to you — feisty, like. Eh? The young couple? Ah, they’ll be back. Parson’s nearly ready, now.” Then she suddenly looked panicked. “But you’ll let me do the witnessin’, won’t you? You wouldn’t take that from me, would you?”

“Of course you must be the witness,” she said. “I’d rather stay back here, where it’s quiet.”

The woman’s eyes softened. “You’re a good girl,” she whispered urgently.

At the other end of the sanctuary, the priest cleared his throat. His voice carried clearly through the still room. “Are you ready, young people?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mary’s head swiveled at the sound of Michael’s voice. He and Angelica stood facing the minister, stiff and formal. Angelica’s veil was still closely draped about her face, but the figure was certainly the same.

Mary stepped into the shadow of a pillar. If she stood quite still, it was unlikely the priest would notice her. He had the squint of a nearsighted man.

“Have you witnesses?”

Michael glanced about impatiently, and Mary held her breath. But his gaze skimmed past her to the shrunken figure of the pew attendant, slowly making her way up the aisle. “There’s one: Mrs. — er . . .”

“Bridges,” said the pew-opener hopefully. “Old Martha Bridges at your service.”

“Right. But where is the beadle?”

“Mr. Potts has his day off today,” said the vicar. “I’m sure I mentioned to you in the course of our last conversation that he has the day off every other Saturday.”

Michael’s face clouded. “It slipped my mind. But what about the sexton?”