A Spy in the House (26 page)

Huggins looked about helplessly. “No reason for doing away with a boy, sir. I mean, if it were a girl, it’d be something else, ’specially if she was — you know. But a boy? And still in his clothes? Can’t see another explanation, sir.” At James’s frown, he rushed on. “I’ll check back at the station, of course, but I’m afraid we’re a bit shorthanded at the moment. This — this is my first suspicious death, sir.” He blushed again.

James nodded slowly. “The boy’s named Quigley. He lived with his mother, a widow. I can give you their address.”

Huggins nodded, relief evident in his posture. “The sooner it’s done the better, sir.” He looked back at his sergeant and gestured meaningfully.

“You’re moving the child now?”

“Sooner the better,” Huggins repeated. “That lot’ll have its teeth out the minute we turn our backs.”

So Alfred Quigley was already “it.” James bent and closed the staring eyes.

Huggins didn’t seem to object. “Good idea, sir. Bit nicer for the mother that way.”

Nicer. Of course. Definitely nicer, being a widow with a dead child. He fished out his wallet with a grimy hand and thrust its contents into Huggins’s startled hand. “For the mother,” he muttered. “Funeral.”
Blood money.

James watched the tragicomic procession: the sullen sergeant with the boy’s body humped over his shoulder, followed by the timid but comfortingly human Constable Huggins. Flies were already swarming around the pool of vomit. He cast a final look at the ground and the patch where Alfred Quigley had been smothered. Then he turned and followed Huggins up out of the pit.

Murderer. Murderer. Murderer
. James was unaware of how long he’d been standing at the edge of the building site, staring at the river, with that taunt running through his head. Alfred Quigley’s death was his fault. There was no room for argument there. And instead of having the courage to tell Mrs. Quigley the news himself, he’d given Huggins the address and left it at that. There was no particular reason for him to remain on site except that he couldn’t think what else to do. Going back to the comfort of his house would be a retreat he didn’t deserve.

His gaze passed over the knot of people on the sticky riverbank. Disappointed scavengers, most of them. Except for — his eyes noted a familiar figure gliding past the embankment. What the devil was she doing on his site? Sudden anger fired him, and before he remembered that he’d sworn not to think of her again, he ran across the churned-up mud to intercept her.

“What the blazes are you doing down here?” He barked the question as soon as he was within earshot.

Mary turned, then looked around and down. She seemed surprised to see him. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

He scrambled up the bank, wiped his palms on his ruined trousers, and glared at her. “You should be safe at home. Don’t you have a job to do?”

“Listen to me,” she said quietly. She stepped closer, wrinkling her nose slightly at the fetid mud that coated him. “There are new developments.”

He didn’t want to talk about new developments. All he wanted was to roar at her until she cried and then pack her off somewhere safe — wherever that might be. He opened his mouth to begin, but she was already talking.

“Thorold’s been arrested. The police raided one of his ships near the warehouses.” She had no idea why the schedule had been pushed forward from Monday to Sunday.

He froze, suddenly alert. “Go on.”

“Two detectives from Scotland Yard came to the house during luncheon. They took him away. The warehouses are being searched and his files seized. It was a complete surprise — even Thorold hadn’t an inkling. He thought they’d come to interview him about the warehouse break-ins!”

“What was he charged with?”

“Smuggling stolen goods.” In a low tone, she summarized the matter of the Indian artifacts. He listened intently, frowning at the ground. Finally he asked, “Where is Gray?”

“At the house. The detectives told him to present himself at the Yard tomorrow.”

“And Mrs. Thorold?”

“I was following her carriage. She called on a solicitor — I assume to arrange for Thorold’s bail and defense. I stopped when you hailed me, but she was on her way home.”

He considered her in silence. She seemed pleased — even blooming — with the adventure of it all. “You’re certain she didn’t see you?”

“I was careful.”

“I hope so, for your sake.”

She frowned at his tone. “What does that mean?”

An image of Alfred Quigley’s dead face, muddy and blue-lipped, flashed before his eyes. He had to protect Mary from the same fate. “I can’t explain,” he said in a tense voice. “But listen to me, Mary. We’re clear of this situation. Thorold’s affairs will be thoroughly investigated. There’s nothing left for you to do. Get yourself a new post, and don’t think about it any further.”

“But —”

“If a trail exists for that lost parlor maid Thorold made pregnant — and I very much doubt it does — the police will find it. The best thing you can do is keep yourself clear of this mess.”

“That’s what you’ve decided?” Oddly, she wasn’t outraged. Her eyes were distinctly green today and bright with excitement.

He worked to keep his voice level. Cool. “Yes.”

“All right, then. What’s your plan?”

He shook his head. “You’re not listening to me. There is no plan. You need to get away from the Thorolds — the whole damned household — as soon as possible and before Thorold is released on bail.
Today.
” He watched her open, eager expression dissolve as she grasped his meaning. Finally.

She closed her eyes for a long moment, and he was glad for the chance to study her face. To take a lingering look. To memorize its contours. The moment didn’t last long. “Let me understand this clearly: You’re telling me to quit? To — to run away and mind my own business, like a good girl?”

He shifted his weight. “I didn’t mean it like that.” When her eyes were open, he was always on the defensive.

“You arrogant swine! You’re telling me what to do — making all the decisions — after we agreed to be partners!
Equal
partners. We shook hands on it!”

“I know. I would explain if I could. . . .”

“But you can’t or won’t or don’t have a good reason, so I’ll just have to take your word for it!”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t say that if it weren’t extremely important. Don’t you see that?”

She stared into his eyes. “Tell me.” He began to open his mouth, and she added, “And
don’t
say you can’t, for my own good.”

He closed his lips. For once, he was at a loss for words. What could he tell her?
Thorold will stop at nothing. He’s murdered an innocent child and now I’m afraid for your life?
The situation seemed so far-fetched, and she was so reckless. Fired by her sense of justice, blinded by her fearlessness, she wouldn’t listen to him. If anything, she’d set out to avenge Alfred Quigley. And run straight into danger. He groaned. It was hopeless.

“I would say take your time, but you did say that matters were pressing. . . .”

He felt trapped by her gaze. Pinned to a card like an insect in a specimen case. The seconds — and then a full minute, and then two — ticked by.

Her eyes narrowed. “No? Then perhaps you can answer this: who are you to decide what’s best for me?”

That was simple, wasn’t it? A collaborator, originally. A coconspirator, certainly. A
friend,
surely. But suddenly all those seemed such weak descriptions compared with how he felt. And that realization frightened him as much as anything else he’d seen today.

“James . . .”

His heart was going much too fast. He could feel it in his throat. “It’s too dangerous. That’s all I can tell you. You must do as I say.” His voice was overloud.

She flushed with temper. “Because I’m a mere, weak woman?”

“No. Because you’re a novice, and a reckless one at that, and there’s nothing you can do to help anybody.” He tried to sound as cold and matter-of-fact as he could.

Her eyes widened with hurt.

“Mary?” He hated playing the brute. “Don’t look like that.”

She didn’t move or reply.

“You’ll be fine, Mary. You’ll find another place. You can still get a letter, a character, from your old school, can’t you? You were only with the Thorolds for —”

Angrily, she shook off his hands. “Don’t touch me.”

He hadn’t realized he’d reached for her. “Very well. But tell me . . .”

“I have to go.”

“At least let me take you home.”

She straightened and met his gaze, and now instead of distress, he saw anger. “As you pointed out, Mr. Easton, we are both well rid of this mess. Therefore, there is no reason for us to continue this conversation or for you to be concerned for me.” She waved away his attempt to speak. “Thank you for your assistance. I wish you well in all your business endeavors.”

“So . . .” He studied her face carefully. “This is farewell forever?”

She lifted her chin. “Aren’t you pleased? I know I am.”

In a day that had already exceeded itself for melodrama, the first thing Mary encountered back at Cheyne Walk was another scene in the drawing room: Mrs. Thorold, tragic and weak, leaning against the back of a chair for support; Angelica, pale and tearstained, clutching Michael’s hand; Michael guilt-stricken but resolute. As she entered the room, only their gazes swerved to meet her. Their bodies remained otherwise frozen.

Mrs. Thorold returned her attention to the guilty couple. “Miss Quinn . . . would you be surprised if I told you that my daughter is married?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Or if I told you to whom she is married?”

“No, ma’am.”

The woman turned to Mary. Her face was flushed with rage, and her pockmarks stood out more than ever. “I take it, then, that you helped them in this pathetic little scheme.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A sound of protest came from Michael, but Mrs. Thorold silenced him with a curt gesture. “Who else in the household participated in this deception?”

“No one else, ma’am.”

A heavy, skeptical silence followed. “I see.” She spoke to Mary with a serene air. “You, of course, are dismissed.”

There was a brief pause, during which she considered her new son-in-law. “You’ll soon be arrested.”

Angelica gasped, but Michael didn’t flinch.

Mrs. Thorold’s gaze traveled to the trembling figure of her daughter. “As for you, my girl . . . my only child . . .” She smiled. “Not a penny. Nothing but the clothes on your back.”

Angelica’s mouth fell open. She had been pale before, but now all hint of color rapidly drained from her face, leaving even her lips chalky.

Mrs. Thorold observed the effect of her words with apparent satisfaction. “William will escort you both from the house. Ring the bell, Miss Quinn.”

“Mama?” whispered Angelica. “Please . . .”

Mrs. Thorold’s glare fell on her like a blade. “You’d have done better to elope,” she said with crisp relish. “You could then have taken some jewels.”

Michael stared at her in horror. “My God — it’s one thing to cut off your only child and another to enjoy it! Are you mad?”

Mrs. Thorold flicked a glance at Mary. “I said, ring the bell!”

Mary clasped her hands before her. “No.”

“How dare you? You are my servant, Miss Quinn!”

“You fired me not two minutes ago.”

Meanwhile, Michael put a protective arm around Angelica. “Hold on to me, darling; I’ll take care of you.” He shot a dark look at his mother-in-law. “No need to ring, madam. Mrs. Gray and I will see ourselves out.”

Angelica seemed about to faint.

Mrs. Thorold clutched the back of a heavily carved chair with an effort that turned her knuckles white. “Get out!” she spat. “Leave my house this instant, you ungrateful wretch!”

Mary placed herself between mother and daughter. “Mrs. Thorold, you have nothing to gain by turning out Mrs. Gray now instead of in an hour’s time.”

“Haven’t I?” The older woman’s eyes glittered as she looked past Mary at Angelica’s slumped body. “I lost my son and heir years ago, my husband is a fool, and now this strumpet can’t even make a decent match. What else have I to lose?”

“The neighbors will have less to gossip about if she’s able to walk from the house.”

For a moment, Mrs. Thorold seemed to consider Mary with new interest. Then her hand fluttered to her forehead. “All this turmoil has been terribly enervating. I shall be resting in my boudoir, and I am not to be interrupted under any circumstances. When I emerge, you will all be gone.”

Once she had limped from the room, Mary went to the drinks table. She poured two large measures of brandy and handed them to the Grays. “Drink that.”

In the long silence that followed, Michael swallowed his in a single gulp, poured another, and repeated the procedure. Angelica sipped hers mechanically. There was a long silence, broken only by the chiming of the clock on the hour.

A full ten minutes passed before anyone spoke. Angelica broke the silence. “This morning, I prayed to be independent. It looks as though my prayer has been granted.” Her tone was dry and neutral.

Mary inspected her for signs of hysteria but found none.

Michael sat down and took her hand. “You can depend on me, darling.”