Traitor and the Tunnel (32 page)

Mary fidgeted. She disliked this new feeling of pity that now crept in when she thought of Honoria Dalrymple. To distract herself, she asked, “But the question of proximity – knowing what she did, why would the Queen elevate Mrs Dalrymple to lady-in-waiting?”

“There’s an old adage,” struck in Felicity, smiling slightly. “‘Wise men keep their friends close but their enemies closer.’ Perhaps Her Majesty found it applicable to wise women, too.”

Mary wondered if she herself might ever be wise.

Right now, she felt completely adrift and unable to discern even who her friends and enemies might be.

She said the next thing that came to mind, quite at random. “Why does the secret tunnel even exist?”

“You are familiar with rumours concerning the private life of George IV,” said Anne.

Mary nodded. Who was not? The Queen’s uncle had been a notorious bon vivant, in every sense of the expression. An immoderate love of food and wine, a turbulent and acrimonious marriage, numerous affairs and the il egitimate children to show for them … it was the stuff of private amusement and public outrage.

“I believe he caused the tunnel to be built in order to facilitate meetings with his mistress, Mrs Fitzherbert. Although he did not live at the Palace, he was on good terms with Queen Charlotte, his mother, and regularly visited her there. It is believed that Mrs Fitzherbert was conducted into the Palace via the river, and up the sewer.”

Mary frowned. “Was such subterfuge truly necessary?”

Anne shrugged. “In the lax society of the day, likely not; I should imagine there was an element of enjoyment in the game. But Mrs Fitzherbert was a Roman Catholic. They were rumoured to have entered into a secret marriage. There may have been a desire to evade public scrutiny – or perhaps even George’s wife’s attention – from time to time.

Anything else, Mary?”

Mary’s thoughts were an undisciplined whirl.

Secret

tunnels,

clandestine

relationships,

disreputable family members… There was no family in the world without its secrets. “No.”

“Then what of the Beaulieu-Buckworth case?”

asked Anne. “Have you managed to uncover anything useful?”

“Ah, yes,” said Felicity. “The Lascar.”

Mary refused to squirm. They might suspect her more-than-general interest in Lang Jin Hai, but they would receive no confirmation from her. “Yes. The Prince of Wales now recal s enough of the night of Beaulieu-Buckworth’s death to be able to state, with certainty,

that

Beaulieu-Buckworth

was

the

aggressor.” She was loath to mention the Lascar’s surname. After al , it was also hers – something that both women knew.

“Very satisfying,” said Anne. “Did you assist him in remembering?”

“I did nothing that compromised my identity as a parlour-maid,” said Mary. “It was a quite unexpected return of memory.”

“Wel . I’m pleased to know this case has resolved itself so favourably,” said Felicity. “I must go soon –

I’ve an appointment to keep – but you’ve now had a short while to think about your choice, Mary. While we do not wish to hurry you, we should like to know of your decision as soon as possible.”

Despite Felicity’s words, it was quite clear that she expected an instantaneous response. Anne, also, seemed to think this an obvious matter. And to a certain extent, this was true: their philosophies were now so different – opposed, even – that choosing one manager over another had become the equivalent of declaring a creed.

Mary disliked this, too. She’d had no intention of questioning them – after al , it signified nothing to her

– but pique, combined with the need to behave normal y, made her ask, “What of my present connections? You’re both aware that I’m once more in contact with James Easton. What would each of you have me do about that?” She regretted the question even before it was ful y spoken. She didn’t want to think about James. If she succeeded in helping her father escape, she would never see him again. If she failed, the same would be true.

The question startled neither manager. They glanced at each other and after a brief pause, Anne spoke. “My dear, the coincidences that have brought you and Mr Easton into proximity are startlingly frequent. I would propose creating an adequate and realistic explanation – the journalistic ruse you used was good for the time being, but insufficient in the long run – before once more severing this tie. I realize this might be awkward, but it’s essential to the preservation of your cover. I might even recommend some internal work, for a short time, until we can properly assess the threat Mr Easton represents to your work.”

A smile hovered about Felicity’s lips. She looked like a chess master about to checkmate her opponent. “And I, my dear, believe that handled properly, Mr Easton represents nothing like a threat

– either to you, or to my organization. Quite the reverse: if you fol ow me to this new agency, my dear, I should be most grateful for your assistance in recruiting Mr Easton to our ranks. I believe he has the right aptitude for work such as ours. It would be a pleasure to invite him to join us.”

The choices couldn’t have been more divergent.

Both women waited, their serene attitudes and expressions belied by the tension in the room, so thick it felt like a change in air pressure. At last, Mary said, “Thank you. I’l inform you of my decision once it’s made.” She paused. Then, to further the fiction of her dilemma, she asked, “Miss Treleaven, may I continue to occupy my room here at the Academy until further notice?”

Anne nodded, perhaps deflated by Mary’s delay.

“You are welcome to your room, Mary, for as long as you continue to be a member of the Agency.”

Ah – and if she chose Felicity, she’d be at Felicity’s mercy for lodgings, as wel ? Suddenly, Mary couldn’t leave the office fast enough.

Felicity, however, was quicker. “Take my card,”

she said to Mary. “You may contact me at any time by leaving a message at this address.”

“Thank you,” said Mary automatical y. She slipped the card into her reticule without a glance.

“Oh!” Anne leapt up. “I nearly forgot.”

Mary stared with fascination as Anne rummaged through the heaps of papers on her desk. She’d never before seen Anne scrabble. It was rather like witnessing a vicar curse.

“Here.” Anne passed her a square envelope. “It arrived just before I found you.” She paused and added, “By special messenger.”

Mary could see that much: there was no stamp on the envelope. It felt stiff between her fingers, the creamy paper thick and expensive. She could see Felicity tilting her head for a better view of the seal on the back. Mary had no desire to share this with anybody. “Thank you,” she said once again, and inclined her head in an ambiguous farewel gesture.

“Good-day.” It was a meaningless commonplace –

until now. As the words left her lips, they sounded like both a mockery and a lie.

Both felt entirely appropriate.

Thirty-three

Thursday evening

Limehouse

She had an idea of what the envelope contained: the seal depicted a crown with the letter R, for Regina, across it. But she feared the delay had already been too long. If she could evade Anne and Felicity’s probing, she could certainly let this envelope wait, too. And so she stuffed it into her reticule and made haste to Limehouse, where she had certain arrangements in mind. After some preliminary exploration, she took lodgings in a quiet house, paying a week’s rent in advance and giving her name as El en Tan, a clerical worker soon to be joined by her invalid father.

The landlady accepted her explanation without question, her attention riveted by the three black-haired children playing by the fire. It was a decent place to go to ground, thought Mary: meals included, a landlady sorely in need of income while her husband was at sea, perhaps a shade of solidarity from a woman married to a Lascar. The woman’s lack of curiosity lent hope, as did her sharp-nosed interest in Mary’s money. Mary might have to guard her purse while they stayed here, but such avarice would be to their advantage: even if their landlady heard of the inevitable man-hunt, they stood a good chance of paying her off. While far from safe, it was as good as anything Mary had imagined.

There was little else to prepare, just now. Much would depend on what Lang said to her today, and when a guard of negotiable morals would be on duty.

There was no point in delaying further, and yet Mary found herself much more nervous returning to the Tower than she had been leaving the Agency and organizing a safe house by the docks. She took more time than necessary in procuring her little vials of laudanum, debating how many to buy and when might be best to start weaning Lang from the drug.

Eventual y, however, there was nothing else to do –

and the time was critical. It was getting towards dusk, after which point she’d never gain access to Lang.

A different guard manned the entrance and he questioned her closely and inspected her reticule with care. Mary was glad she’d taken the time to distribute that sheaf of pound notes – not to mention the laudanum – in the lining of her bag and about her person. Final y, however, she found herself circling up to the top of Cradle Tower. She now understood her trepidation – and wondered at her own stupidity.

It wasn’t just about Lang’s fate – whether he chose hope or fatalism, life or death – but about her own, too. Such an irony to think that her fate would be decided here, by a near-stranger, rather than by herself. It made everything both easier and more difficult.

Up here, it was the same guard as yesterday. She would have to work out their schedules, if Lang was to escape. As she appeared in the doorway, the turnkey unlocked the cel door, rather as though this was part of a routine. In a sense, it was – she’d come three days in a row. He even left her a tal ow candle to light the way. He then retreated to the window by the staircase where, Mary now observed, he rather looked forward to the opportunity for an il icit pipe. A useful thing to know.

She entered the room, candle in hand, nervous but prepared. “Good evening. How are you feeling today?”

No response from the lump beneath the blanket –

only a faint crackling sound.

“Mr Lang?”

That sparse clattering again, and then a faint whimper.

“Hel o?” She peeled back the blanket with caution.

What she saw caused her to gasp, her stomach to turn over. That rattling sound was Lang Jin Hai trying to breathe, each pained gasp making the fluid rattle in his chest. His hair was soaked with sweat, clinging to his skul in streaks. His skin, even by candlelight, had a grey-green pal or. And his eyes rol ed in their sockets, ghastly and unseeing.

She bolted into the larger room, her voice high and sharp with fright. “You, guard! Cal a physician!”

The guard blinked, curls of tobacco swirling lazily about his head. “You al right, miss?”

“I’m fine, but the prisoner is dying. For pity’s sake, cal a doctor, now! You must have one somewhere in this hel -hole.”

The guard blinked again, as though she was speaking gibberish. “A doctor, miss?”

“This instant. Please!”

He seemed to move at a fraction of his usual sluggard’s pace, but eventual y he levered himself up and could be heard lumbering down the stairs. She considered charging after him and going for help herself – she would be so much faster – yet she couldn’t bear to leave Lang to suffer alone. Her medical training was rudimentary, but even she could see that he hadn’t long to live. A few hours?

Perhaps a few days, if he was an exceptional y hardy and stubborn soul.

She mopped his brow with her handkerchief while the occasional tear splashed the rotting straw paillasse. This was always to have been Lang’s fate, she admitted now. Ever since she’d seen that jagged cut, she’d been afraid of it. Denied it. Hoped against fate. But blood-poisoning was almost inevitable in an injury like his, left to fester untreated for days. And he was a frail man, his body older than his years.

Had the escape plan merely been an elaborate way to avoid thinking about her future? A deception that cushioned her unwanted knowledge that things were not entirely right at the Agency? Or perhaps merely a desperate romance built on the discovery of family? A father who’d reappeared only to vanish once more.

She knelt beside the mattress and took his parchment-thin hand. They were entirely alone now.

No guard idling at ten paces, no future to fear. She drew a breath and said, very softly, “Father.”

His bruised eyelids trembled, struggling against their own weight. His eyes, when they opened, were those of Frankenstein’s monster – jaundice-yel ow, crazed with veins of red. But they were stil her eyes, too. He blinked once, very slowly.

She focused on keeping her voice steady.

“Father.”

Another of those rattling breaths – a wrenching attempt, she realized, to clear his chest. He was too weak to cough. “Mary.”

She opened a vial of laudanum and held it to his lips, cradling his head gently as he swal owed its bitter contents little by little.

After a second smal bottle of the tincture, his breathing eased and a little of his agony seemed to fade.