Rivals in the City (7 page)

She, Mary Quinn, had survived the death of her parents, a childhood on the streets, a career as pickpocket and housebreaker. She had escaped the very gallows she now quailed before, with the help of the Agency. She had benefited from an education at Miss Scrimshaw’s Academy for Girls, and been trained as a secret agent by the Agency. She had chosen a life of action, utility and independence. Why was she now so scandalized and easily bruised by experience? If this was how life as a lady had transformed her, she needed to change back. And quickly. She drained her brandy and fished out her purse. “Thank you,” she said, paying Mrs Bridges. “That’s just what I needed.”

But the landlady was looking at the coin, then at Mary. “Tell you what,” she said, after a moment’s pause. “Keep your money and give us a hand with the washing-up, instead.”

Mary nearly laughed until she realized the woman was in earnest. “Do you always find your barmaids off the street?” she asked.

“You’re a decent sort, I can tell. And we could do with a girl to help us out,” said Mrs Bridges. “Someone neat, what minds her Ps and Qs, and you’re not hard on the eyes, which always helps.” She gave Mary a swift once-over. “Eight shillings a week, with your room and board. Start tomorrow.”

Mary half-smiled. “You’re kind, Mrs Bridges, but I’ve my own work to get on with.”

“What d’you do, then?”

“I sell gingerbread,” said Mary, surprising herself. Even as she uttered the words, however, she realized how ideal such a cover would be. She could wander the length and breadth of Newgate, mingling freely with the crowds. She could come and go as she pleased. Gingerbread was lightweight, too: she needed nothing more than a covered basket and a few pennyworth of spiced dough from a bakeshop.

The landlady sighed with regret. “That’s cold, hard work, in the streets. You’d be better off here, in the pub.”

Mary begged to differ. Pub work would keep her tethered to one spot. And with the offer of room and board, she’d find herself working eighteen-hour days. Nevertheless, she said politely, “If I change my mind, I’ll come and find you.”

“Come and find me anyway, dearie,” said Mrs Bridges, getting up and starting to polish the pumps again. “We all need a sit-down and a gossip, now and again.”

Mary smiled and made her way back into Newgate, fortified both by brandy and a sense of purpose. The street scene was as squalid and raucous as ever, the high wooden gibbet still a scar against the low grey sky. This was her London: brutal, coarse, dangerous. It was a part of her history. It had moulded her character. But she would not allow it to shape her destiny.

Six

Late morning, the same day

Threadneedle Street, the City of London

J
ames Easton had a fairly good imagination. Even so, the best description he could find for the underground vaults of the Bank of England was “unimaginable”. The rows upon rows of gold bars stored within, stacked like so many cakes of soap on simple metal shelves, gave the place a surreal, childish quality. One wanted to laugh and scratch off the gold paint to show that they were, in fact, ordinary and unprecious lead. Even so, how much would such a vast quantity of lead be worth? Transfixed by the sheer scale of things, James automatically began a calculation, but abandoned it a moment later.

“How do you intend to manage your assets during the period of construction?” he asked the party of five men, members of the Court of Directors of the Bank of England, who were showing him around.

“Eh?” said an older man named Bentley who seemed, unofficially, in charge of the committee. “How d’you mean?”

“Will you move the gold to a separate storage facility while the work is underway?”

“Yes,” said Mr Bentley with a fussy nod. He spoke with his upper lip perpetually curled, so that his “yes” sounded like “yis”. “Yes, unfortunate and risky as the task will indubitably be, that is essential. We simply haven’t enough extra space to redistribute the gold.” He coughed and glanced doubtfully at James over his pince-nez. “Not to mention the security risk of having workmen down here on a daily basis, with the gold close by.”

James wasn’t offended. His labourers were all carefully vetted, but there was no need to expose them to temptation. Different men had different breaking points. “I must advise you that the removal and storage of such precious cargo is new to me. While I am willing to undertake the work, you may wish to organize that yourselves.”

Mr Bentley looked vaguely surprised. “Your point is noted. We shall, er … hem. We shall have to discuss that amongst ourselves.”

“Very well. Let us treat the two matters – the clearing of the vaults and the repair work – as entirely separate tasks for now. It will be difficult to know just how much time we’ll need to complete the work until the vaults are completely emptied. We may discover further rot or areas of structural instability that are presently concealed.”

The Directors frowned as one. “Oh.”

“I shall need a copy of the original plans for the storage vaults, as well as details of any alterations that have been carried out.”

The youngest of the gentlemen, who was still James’s senior by two decades or so, presented him with a card. “I shall have those delivered, by secure guard, to your office this afternoon. Please communicate directly with me should you require anything further along those lines.”

James thanked him. “As we’re contemplating such a significant expansion, you will perhaps also consider if you’d like to include gas lighting in the new and rebuilt vaults. We shall have to address the question of air exchange, which means it’s quite straightforward to lay a gas line at the same time.” There was a brief pause in the group’s mutterings and throat-clearings, during which James’s keen ears picked up a faint but distinct rustling noise. Naturally. “It sounds as though I must also mention the rather impolite matter of vermin. Is there currently an infestation of any sort at the Bank?”

Blank expressions. Confusion. Then, gradually, the dawn of understanding. Affront. Horror. Denial. Here? At such an august institution?

James smiled and held up his hands to quell their sputtering. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I shall investigate the matter if and when we find it necessary.” He made a mental note to engage a rat catcher.

Mr Bentley stepped forward from the group, eyeing him warily. “Quite. Er. Hem. Is there anything else you wish to see in the vaults, Mr Easton?” The man’s long nose twitched, and James found it difficult not to stare at the mole that decorated its tip.

James knew a dismissal when he heard one. He was roughly one-third this man’s age, an upstart child in the eyes of the Court of Directors. He wondered again who’d chosen him for this task. Certainly not one of these fellows. He permitted himself to be escorted from the building, confirmed that the necessary plans and renderings would be delivered to his offices as promised and stood for a while in the late-afternoon drizzle of Threadneedle Street, contemplating the Bank’s unwelcoming façade.

As George had gloated, it was a perfect job: logistically complex, technically demanding and handsomely paid. Already, James was itching to begin. It was the sort of project that could become entirely absorbing, that would force him to stretch and learn daily. In fact, it was too perfect. Beneath his thrumming anticipation, James remained conscious of a steady, cold trickle of suspicion: was he being set up?

He shivered, and the hairs rose on the back of his neck. This Bank job had been too straightforwardly laid at his feet. To begin with, what sort of financial institution failed to force its suppliers to compete for business? He knew that the First Commissioner of Works, whom he’d favourably impressed during that business at St George’s Tower, had a great deal of influence within government. However, the Bank of England was probably outside his jurisdiction. George had suggested that the First Commissioner might be the brother-in-law of the Bank’s Governor, or somesuch, but was it sufficient to believe in such a high degree of coincidence?

Then again, coincidence seemed as likely in life as it did on stage. It had ensured that on three previous occasions, against all probability and logic, he’d met up with Mary Quinn and worked with her on jobs that redefined the irregular. He saw, each day, how small coincidences had immense consequences. It was well within the realm of the possible.

He simply had to persuade himself that such was the case this time.

Tuesday, 16 October, 7 p.m.

Along the border of Soho and Bloomsbury

He didn’t hear it coming.

One moment, James was walking home from his offices in Great George Street, enjoying the brief respite from rain and thinking about what Mary might be doing. The next moment, the ground rose up to meet him. His hands failed to break his fall and he slammed, with crushing force, into the foul, pebbly soil of a narrow alleyway. He kept his head up and thus managed to avoid smashing his face, but the impact was such that all he could do, for several long seconds, was try to breathe. What had happened? What was wrong with his arms? Why could he not move?

“Where’s your wallet?” snarled a voice in his ear.

Light dawned. “Breast pocket,” he said, and was relieved to find his tongue and teeth still intact.

His right shoulder was pinned to the ground – he guessed it was the thief’s knee – and an unknown hand fumbled to extract the billfold from his suit. James moved his legs experimentally and the voice hissed, “Keep still, or I’ll slit your throat.” The threat was accompanied by the flash of a long metal blade.

The same clumsy hand began to pat down his coat pockets. James’s arms were still pinioned behind him and he wondered what the thief would do next. Few thieves killed their marks; it only slowed their escape. And this one had the advantage of coming from behind so that James couldn’t identify him. However, logic might not be a street thief’s forte. How could James possibly presume that his life was worth anything at all to the man kneeling on his back? He could only wait. This ordeal would end, one way or another, in a minute or two.

In fact, it was quicker than that. An instant later, he heard the clatter of a wooden rattle. The thief stiffened, cursed, and the weight on James’s back suddenly lifted. There was a slight scrabbling sound, and footsteps skittered away down the alley. A moment later, heavier, slightly slower footsteps approached, slipping and crunching their way down the alley. “Sir! Can you speak, sir?”

He groaned and tried to roll over.

“Don’t move, sir! Keep still until I can see what damage that dastard has done.”

James ignored this advice and rolled onto his side, then heaved himself to a seated position. “It’s all right, Constable. Mainly scrapes and bruises, I suspect.”

The police constable frowned anxiously. “Well, I’m glad to hear it, sir. That was a nasty great knife he was carrying.”

“All’s well that ends well, isn’t that so?” James tried to stand and groaned. “I think this overcoat, however, is done for.”

The constable offered him a hand up. As James stood, the faint jingling of his pockets made them both pause. “You were quick, Constable. I still have my keys and coins and pocket watch.” This last would be cracked or broken from the impact, but James was glad to have it, nevertheless. It had been his father’s. He glanced around the alleyway. “But I don’t see my drawings.”

“Drawings, sir?”

“A roll of architectural plans. In a cardboard tube.”

The constable searched the alley, quickly and carefully. “Not here, sir. You certain you had them, until that cove tackled you?”

“Under my arm.”

The constable pursed his lips. “It’s a funny thing to take, that. I’ve never known a thief to take papers and leave a watch.”

“He may have lost his wits when he heard your rattle.” Or perhaps he’d wanted the drawings all along.

“I don’t suppose you saw his face at all, sir?”

“Afraid not. I shouldn’t think there’s much use in filing a report, Constable. All I know is that it was a man with a knife.”

The constable was reluctant to let him go, but short of arresting the victim, there was nothing he could do. “Shall I find you a cab, sir?”

James looked down ruefully. “I doubt a hansom would have me, in this condition. I’ll be all right walking.”

He was only ten minutes from home, but it took him longer than usual to get there. His ribs ached, he limped slightly and he was unable to shake the ghostly pressure of the thief’s knee in his back. More than all that, however, he was distracted. Actually, he wasn’t: he was furious. It wasn’t the loss of the actual drawings that troubled him most. They were of an older project, already completed, copies of which he’d wanted for his home office. The originals were safe at the office and one of his draftsmen could make a new set. It was a matter of what else the incident suggested.

Between the return of Maria Thorold and his new commission at the Bank of England, it would be hopelessly optimistic to think the robbery random or coincidental. No, it was connected. The difficulty was that he couldn’t know how. Had the thief aimed to snatch highly confidential plans of the most secure building in London? Or was the theft of the drawings merely a blind? Perhaps the assault was intended as a warning to James, to frighten him away from the Bank’s offer. Or, just possibly, the thief had been interrupted before he used his knife to send Mary a message written in blood.

James shook himself, mentally and physically. He was running away with himself, here. There was still no clear public evidence of any connection between him and Mary. He had to believe that, if he wasn’t to shake with fear every moment of every day. It was easier said than done, though, and he was still brooding when he stepped into the warm, bright hall of his home in Gordon Square.

“There you are, Jamie!” called a beloved but presently most unwelcome voice. George strode through the hall to greet him. As he approached, however, his expression changed from impatient welcome to indignant perplexity. “What on earth happened to you? You’re not injured, are you? Oh heavens, you need a doctor! Mrs Vine!” He bellowed these last words, and their housekeeper popped into view half a moment later.