Rivals in the City (13 page)

So she would be on duty, day and night. “Have you any idea where Mrs Thorold might be right now?”

Anne shook her head, her lips compressed in a clear sign of frustration. “No, and that is why simply shadowing Angelica is no longer sufficient. The timing is ominous: if something is going to occur, it will be soon.”

Mary thought a moment. “How is Angelica taking the news?”

“Rather well. I must say, she’s grown up enormously since I last saw her.”

“She would be the first to acknowledge that there was much growing up to be done.”

“Quite. Now, I know I’ve burst in rather abruptly with this proposal, Mary, but I imagine you rather expected it. I must ask you now: are you willing to accept this assignment, knowing that your personal risk is constantly heightened in Angelica’s presence, and knowing also that the situation may bring you into direct contact with Mrs Thorold? I need hardly advise you that it is considerably more dangerous than keeping watch from afar.”

No, there was no need to tell her that. “I accept, on one condition.”

Anne was visibly surprised. “What is that?”

“The moment you receive definitive information about Mrs Thorold’s location, you must inform James Easton. Directly, please. Not via Scotland Yard.”

Anne nodded briskly. “Certainly. Have you any further questions at this point?”

Mary rose. “Yes, but I imagine you will answer them in the carriage. I am to come with you immediately, am I not?”

Anne smiled. “If you please. And do pack a small trunk. You’ll be staying a few nights.”

Ten

M
ary had her doubts about the extremely convenient timing of her reappearance in Acacia Road. However, Angelica Thorold appeared to accept Mary’s explanation at face value: her employers had accused her of stealing a necklace and dismissed her without a character. It was a perfectly ordinary story, the sort of thing that happened dozens of times a day, all over London.

“What will you do now?” asked Angelica, sympathetically. They were sitting down over buttered rolls, cold ham and boiled eggs: a late breakfast for Angelica, who had just returned from Newgate.

Mary shrugged. “Look for a new place, I suppose. I’m luckier than most in being able to stay here in the meantime.”

“Of course,” said Angelica, but there was a small frown between her eyebrows as she toyed with her food. “However, there’s not a great deal to look forward to, is there? Another wealthy family, who may or may not treat you well? Who may accuse you of worse, or have unreasonable expectations? And you can’t be well paid. Shall you ever be able to save enough money to support yourself, if you cannot find work for a spell? Or once you are too old to work? And what of your life? What do
you
want to do?”

Mary was divided between amusement and suspicion. Was Angelica on her way to becoming a full-fledged member of the Academy, or was this merely a polite way of expressing her suspicions? “It’s all very well to ask those questions,” she said, with quiet dignity. “You have a music scholarship in Vienna and the chance to win fame and fortune through art. You are blessed with talent, money and education, Angelica, and I am glad of it for your sake.

“But my life will be entirely different. The life that I lead now, poor and restricted though it seems to you, is far more worth living than the one Fate allotted me. I shall do my best with it, because it’s what I was granted, and because I know it is more than I deserve.” Mary had begun this defence as part of her role, but she meant what she said. Although the specific details were a sham, the sentiment was entirely truthful.

Angelica flushed crimson. “I beg your pardon,” she said quietly. “I was thoughtless.”

Mary squeezed her hand. “We are all thoughtless, at times. And here I am scolding you, when I ought to ask how you are faring.”

Angelica sighed. “I feel … insensible. Numb. Even when I saw his body this morning, I could not persuade myself that my father was truly gone. It’s as though I’m waiting for somebody to confirm it.” She made a helpless gesture. “Perhaps I’d believe the news if I heard it from my mother. She was often ill, and thought herself frail, but she was the real head of our household. Perhaps I can’t believe that my father would do something so bold as to die without her consent.”

Was this permission to ask after Mrs Thorold? It seemed too open, too sudden an invitation. Best to let it pass and try again later, when she had a clearer idea of Angelica’s frame of mind. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Mary asked, “Is there anything I can help you to organize, since I’m here? Goodness knows, I’ve time to spare.”

Angelica thought for a moment. “The funeral’s tomorrow.”

Mary couldn’t contain her surprise. “So quickly? And you’ve arranged everything?” Burial plots in London were rare and difficult to come by. Perhaps Mr Thorold would be buried in a rural graveyard; it wasn’t as though Angelica would be able to visit him frequently.

“Oh heavens, it wasn’t me. Miss Treleaven’s been endlessly helpful; she’s so extremely kind and knowledgeable, isn’t she? She knew just the person to contact, and it so happened that a family had booked a funeral and then cancelled it. I don’t know what kind of people do that, do you? Perhaps they were only hoping the person was dead, and are now very disappointed?” Angelica gave a tiny giggle. “In any case, we got the lot – carriage, horses, casket and six feet of ground – at a price Miss Treleaven says is a fraction of what it ordinarily costs.” She giggled again. “Papa would be ever so pleased; he loved a good bargain.”

Mary had heard stranger things. “It’s very soon,” she said, nudging their talk back on track.

“What? Oh yes.” Angelica paused, then found the thread of the conversation. “I haven’t any mourning clothes. I suppose I ought to get some crape.” She met Mary’s eyes defiantly. “Oughtn’t I?” Crape fabric was fragile and impossible to launder, and anything Angelica bought would be ruined on her journey back to Vienna. Still, it was impossible to imagine doing without it.

Mary held her gaze. “You’re the mourner.”

“Did you wear mourning for your parents?”

Mary swallowed. “I was a child. I made myself a black armband from a ribbon I found.” “Found” on a lady’s hat, that is.

“A child? Oh, Mary.” Angelica’s eyes welled with tears.

Mary shook her head. “Don’t cry for me, please.” She paused. “Pretend you’re wearing crape! One good cry and it’ll be ruined.”

Angelica laughed and wiped her eyes. “You’re impossible. And you’ve helped me to an utterly radical decision: I shall wear black, but not crape.” She pushed aside her half-eaten roll and drank the last of her tea. “You’re a dangerous person to have about, Mary Quinn. My mother would have your head, if she knew even half of what you’ve inspired me to.”

Mary was inclined to agree.

On the omnibus ride to Regent Street, both women remained quiet. Mary looked at Angelica’s narrow face, carefully stripped of expression, and wondered what she was thinking. Was she preoccupied by thoughts of her father’s last days? Was she considering how to contact her mother, or reviewing the plans they might already have in place? Angelica might even be contemplating immediate action, a reminder that Mary had always to be on her guard with Angelica, especially beyond the safety of the Academy. Or perhaps Angelica was merely consumed by the enormity of the crime she was about to commit against polite society’s requirements for mourning wear.

At Jay’s General Mourning Warehouse, an emporium that combined the hush of a church with the confusion of a bazaar, Angelica completed her shopping transactions: a black woollen dress, ready-made but for the hemming and a few seams in the bodice; a plain black shawl; a black bonnet, minimally trimmed; black gloves in stout leather. All to be delivered that evening, in time for tomorrow’s burial. Angelica was remote, expert, price-conscious, her long years of peacocking once more an advantage.

When they stumbled out of the shop just a half-hour later, shivering in the chilly damp, Angelica said, “I did it. I was afraid I’d not be able to go through with it, but I did.”

“
Were
you afraid? You looked fearfully resolved, to me. And the sales clerk didn’t even try to tempt you with extras, he was so overawed by your authority.”

“He tried to argue with me on the gloves. He said they were unladylike.”

“What did you tell him?”

Angelica grinned. “I told him I wasn’t a lady.”

They walked in silence through the hubbub of Oxford Street for a few minutes, until Mary asked, “What else have you to do? Any other duties or commissions?”

“Nothing in the world, although I rather wish I did. A spate of busyness would do me a world of good, right now.”

Back to London, back to the enforced idleness of the lady. And ladies always needed diversions. Diversions or cakes. “Do you need to sit down for a spell? There’s a decent coffee-room near by.”

Angelica made an impatient gesture. “Oh God, not more sitting and sipping. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime!”

“A good long ramble?”

“Better, but my boots won’t take it…” Unexpectedly, Angelica’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve got it: the museum.”

Mary suppressed a jolt of surprise. Was she reading too much into Angelica’s visit to the British Museum, that vast treasurehouse of the nation? Hers could be a perfectly innocent visit, the sort that hundreds of people paid each day. Or it might be a statement of intent, a coded message that Mary didn’t yet know how to interpret. After a morning in Angelica’s company, she was no more confident about Angelica’s real motives than she had been last week.

Angelica knew the way to Great Russell Street, a detail that Mary found noteworthy. The museum had recently been rebuilt at enormous expense, and the two women were silent as they entered the courtyard and contemplated its elegant façade. On holidays, the building swarmed with bodies: courting sweethearts, scowling pedants, packs of mewling children. Today, however, it was relatively quiet – which is to say only half full – and they made their way into the imposing entrance hall without difficulty.

“I didn’t know you were fond of museums,” said Mary.

“Oh, it’s the only part of my character that’s not hopelessly superficial,” replied Angelica. “My father used to take me, as a child. I was absolutely fascinated by the natural specimens. I once frightened him terribly by disappearing. After a frantic search, he and some museum employees found me beneath a hippopotamus, contemplating its, er, underbelly.”

The cloakroom attendant who took their umbrellas gave them a disapproving look, which made them both smile. “The natural history exhibits are closed today, due to illness,” he said.

“The exhibits are ill?” asked Mary, with mock innocence.

Angelica couldn’t quite stifle a giggle.

“Illness on the part of the museum staff,” snapped the cloakroom attendant.

“Did you tell your mother about the hippo incident?” asked Mary, after they’d moved away. It was slightly awkward, but the most natural way of introducing the subject of Mrs Thorold.

“Not at the time,” said Angelica. “But of course, it was too good a story to be kept for ever, so my father told it once I passed the age for wandering off. I’m afraid I don’t remember the event myself; only his fondness for the tale.” Her eyes glinted with moisture as she uttered this last sentence, and she dabbed them fiercely with a handkerchief. “Perhaps it’s just as well we can’t pay homage to the hippopotami; I couldn’t bear the disappointment if it turned out they weren’t twelve feet tall.”

This was the tone of their visit: light-hearted yet nostalgic, sentimental but disciplined. They wandered the vast halls in companionable silence. Angelica volunteered an occasional remark, but she remained, for the most part, in a contemplative mood.

Mary counselled herself to patience. While it was impossibly tempting to question Angelica on the subject of her mother, that was the fastest route to mistrustful silence. It was enough that Mary was conveniently idle and available just at the time Angelica most wanted companionship. The rest would come. She believed that. But still, the question buzzed about her mind, taunting, distracting: would it come in time?

It might not have come at all except that they wandered, perhaps by chance, into a room crammed with artefacts from the East. There were curved swords and thick, round shields; sculpted breastplates and silver-tipped helmets; sheet-gold drinking-cups and fanciful talismans. And in a glass-topped case at the centre of the room lay an extraordinary amulet: a polished circle featuring the shape of a bird in flight, worked in gold and rubies and emeralds. It gleamed in the prosaic London daylight like an ember amidst ashes.

Both Mary and Angelica fell silent at the sight of it. They drifted closer to the jewelled disc, gazes fixed and unblinking, until the frames of their crinolines brushed the base of the wooden case. It was a heart-stopping piece, a physical token of arrogance, power and unimaginable wealth.

Mary swallowed hard and glanced at Angelica, whose face was creased with something that looked very much like pain. Mary’s instant thought was of Mr Thorold, imprisoned for smuggling these sorts of treasures. She bit her lip and remained silent, staring at the piece, scanning their surroundings. This was the critical moment and they were alone in this narrow chamber.

One room over, a group of museum-goers was being condescended to by a man in a rusty-black frock-coat. There was a young couple paying more attention to each other than to the exhibits. A shabby clerk with an untrimmed beard. A middle-aged bluestocking with pince-nez. But near them, nobody. She needed to exercise patience. Keep silent. Pray that they weren’t interrupted.

After a long minute Angelica spoke, her voice scratchy and waterlogged. “Mary … do you think he did it?”

Too many thoughts clamoured for voice.
Yes, of course. Who else? Do you know something that Scotland Yard doesn’t?
Eventually, Mary said very quietly, “I don’t know. I suppose I assumed the police had the right man.”
What about the right woman? What else was there to know about Angelica’s mother?