Rivals in the City (16 page)

No, she told herself. The sighting had been fleeting but definite. A certain gait, a particular angle of the chin: those were the infinitesimal details that set one hooped-and-draped lady apart from another. Mary knew, in her bones, that the lady in the cab was Maria Thorold. All the same, she held her breath as the cabman opened the door.

A moment.

Then another, and yet a third.

The cabman looked impatient and called something up the steps. After another pause, he climbed up part way, forehead creased, one arm extended in an offer of assistance. As he vanished into the carriage, Mary felt an entirely different sense of certainty: a sickening one that began in the pit of her stomach and made her glance nervously at the faces of those around her. As if that would help.

She waited with queasy conviction, until the cabman reappeared on the steps. His expression – perplexity, outrage, suspicion – was all the confirmation she required. It had indeed been Mrs Thorold in the hackney. And despite Mary’s supposedly careful surveillance, she had somehow vanished from a closed carriage in broad daylight.

Mrs Thorold was back.

Twelve

O
ne of the few things that seemed clear to Mary was what to do next. After waiting for the hackney to set off, the driver still scowling and muttering about his lost fare, she turned towards St John’s Wood. It was near the supper hour by the time she arrived, and for once she was glad for the delay in her report to Anne. She changed her mud-spattered dress, washed her face and hands and joined the school body for the simple meal: a thick vegetable soup, bread and butter and a wedge of aged Cheddar, intensely salty with its undertone of sweet cream. It was good medicine for the frustration and anxiety that dogged her, and she noticed its similar restorative effect upon Angelica’s thin, tired face at the far end of the long teacher’s table. By the time Mary knocked on Anne’s study door, she was able to present a composed report on her day’s observations.

Anne, as was her habit, listened in perfect silence. When Mary had concluded, Anne rose, stirred the fire and balanced two fresh logs atop the bright embers. “If I understand you correctly,” she said, “there are four main points of attention here. The first is that Angelica has, in fact, been in contact with Mrs Thorold at various points over the past two years. We only have Angelica’s description of the tenor of their relationship, but it is worth considering the possibility that they are working in partnership, and may have been for some time.

“The second point is Angelica’s interest in the British Museum. Was her decision to take you to the museum purely sentimental? Childhood memories of her father, and all that? Or had she an ulterior motive in drawing your attention towards it? If she is, indeed, working in tandem with her mother, her intention would be to divert attention from their planned crime. While we must continue to consider all possibilities, I think it is reasonable to presume either that her visit to the museum was coincidental or else a deliberate attempt to lead us astray. The destination of this afternoon’s hackney carriage intensifies that likelihood.

“The third matter is your definitive – that is not too strong a word? – identification of Mrs Thorold, however brief. It would be much better to know her approximate location, of course, but you did your best.” Mary flinched inwardly at this implied criticism but managed to maintain her external composure. “We must now proceed with the knowledge that she is in town, and active. I hope the police will increase their efforts to locate her as a result of your identification.

“We now come to the fourth point: the Bank of England, and Mrs Thorold’s presence there. Are you inclined to consider it another attempt to confuse and distract?”

Mary shook her head. “If I had followed her into the City, then certainly. But I noticed Mrs Thorold entirely by coincidence and she was in the company of a gentleman who returned to the Bank after seeing her off. It should be relatively straightforward to confirm his identity, if he works at the Bank. He’s in his sixties, with a distinctive mole at the end of his nose.”

Anne nodded. “I’ll enquire. If he is indeed an employee of the Bank, you have identified Mrs Thorold’s most plausible target.”

Mary suppressed a small surge of pride. This was all highly conditional, and part of the job, besides.

“At this point, Mary, have you any proposals as to your next course of action?”

This was an entirely new question from Anne, and one Mary didn’t know quite how to answer. Nevertheless, Anne was looking at her expectantly, so she drew a deep breath. “Much hangs upon the identification of Mrs Thorold’s gentleman-companion,” she said. “Until that is accomplished, I think I ought to stay near Angelica. She told me of her father’s funeral tomorrow. It was not quite an invitation, but I’ll try to turn it into one. It’s not impossible that Mrs Thorold might be present there, in some way.”

Anne nodded. “Entirely reasonable. If Angelica prefers to be alone, let her go. It will build her trust in you, and I’ll ensure that she’s shadowed by someone she won’t recognize.” There was a brief hesitation, then Anne asked, “Mary, when were you last in contact with James Easton?”

Mary started at the mention of his name, then promptly blushed at her utter transparency on this subject. “This past Saturday,” she said, after a second, with only a slight tremor in her voice. “Five days ago. Why? What do you know?”

Anne looked embarrassed. At least, thought Mary, she didn’t look tragic or solicitous – sure portents of truly bad news. “Perhaps the most regrettable consequence of Felicity Frame’s departure from the Agency is the rivalry between our firm and her new … establishment,” Anne said. As she spoke, a faint tide of pink rose from her throat to cheeks to ears. “We find it necessary to track Mrs Frame’s activities, as she does ours. She would have been fully aware of my request to you nearly a week ago.”

Mary found herself spellbound, both by Anne’s admission and her evident emotional state.
This
, from the most disciplined and formal woman she knew! “You never informed me that I would be watched by Mrs Frame’s agency, too.”

“I thought long about the omission, but decided you didn’t need the additional distraction.”

“It distracted me, anyway. I spent unnecessary time and energy watching the widow outside Newgate! Had I known Mrs Frame might be present, that would have helped me to recognize her.”

Anne nodded, her eyes closed in pained apology. “It was an error on my part. One I shall not repeat.”

Mary disciplined her anger. “We were talking about Mr Easton.”

“Yes.” Anne, too, drew on her deep reserves of sangfroid. “Yesterday, Mrs Frame paid a visit to Easton Engineering. Clearly, we were not privy to her conversation with Mr Easton, but it is quite likely that she attempted to recruit him to her cause.”

Felicity’s
cause
: Anne made it sound underhanded and reprehensible. Yet what had Felicity done, really, apart from welcome men to her new firm? It was really no different from Quinn and Easton, only on a larger scale – except, of course, that Felicity’s departure had sundered the Agency as all knew it. It had also destroyed the profound intimacy that existed between Felicity and Anne, a bond that Mary had never before thought to question. She wondered which Anne regretted more.

She spoke quietly into the loud silence and with more assurance than she felt. “You need not worry about my arrangement with Mr Easton. We have an understanding, and we will not permit other rivalries or distractions to undermine that. If Mrs Frame asked for Mr Easton’s help in locating Mrs Thorold, my only concern is for his continued safety. I believe, otherwise, that he will act with his usual intelligence and discretion.” She paused. “In fact, if we still believe that the Bank of England is Mrs Thorold’s target, then Mr Easton, as an engineer, could offer insight as to how such an audacious robbery might be possible.” Yes. That was entirely logical. Her confidence rose slightly, although not so high as her firm tone suggested. She couldn’t leave the subject entirely, however, without some reassurance. “So far as you know, Mr Easton is safe? There have been no threats or approaches?”

“He seems to be conducting business as usual.”

“Thank you.” Earlier, Mary had wondered whether to mention her two appointments on Saturday: with James at Mudie’s, and with Lang in Leicester Square. Now, in light of Anne’s excessive secrecy, Mary decided that she, too, was entitled to some privacy.

“Mary, I understand your anxiety for Mr Easton’s well-being,” said Anne, with perceptible hesitation. “Would it ease your mind if we were also to monitor his movements? We should be able to inform you of any irregularities or incidents in his day.”

Mary’s first impulse was to accept, wholeheartedly and with profound gratitude. As she considered, however, she shrank from the idea. It wasn’t purely the trampling of James’s privacy that she disliked, or the prospect of Anne knowing every detail of his life. It was the presumption that more knowledge on her part would keep James safe. It was the arrogance of attempting to play God in the life of a man she loved and respected. Perhaps, at core, it was the outrage she would feel at the prospect of his doing the same to her.

She raised her head and said, “Thank you, Miss Treleaven, but no. My duty now is to remain focused upon my assignment, and I trust Mr Easton to do the same.”

And on Saturday they would meet.

Friday, 19 October

Miss Scrimshaw’s Academy for Girls Acacia Rd, St John’s Wood

Where is Mrs Thorold?

Mary lay in her bed early on Friday morning, the words swelling within her until they seemed to press against her skin. She was gritty-eyed, jittery, frustrated: the fraying threads of her investigation, her anxiety on James’s behalf, her frustration with Anne’s needless secrecy, combined with Angelica’s desire to talk late into the night, had made for a short and fractured rest. All the same, it was time to rise. It was the morning of Henry Thorold’s second-hand funeral.

Mary sat up and glanced at the narrow bed on which Angelica lay perfectly still, eyes open and unblinking. It was an evocative pose – her hands were clasped across her chest, corpse-like – and Mary froze, reluctant to interrupt her meditations.

“It’s all right,” said Angelica, in a remarkably normal voice. “I’m not going to have hysterics.” She continued to study the ceiling – or perhaps her attention was focused on something well above the rooftops.

Mary slid her feet into her slippers and huddled into her dressing-gown. Bedrooms at the Academy were always cold; only the main rooms had their own fireplaces. “I doubt you’ve ever had hysterics. Unless, perhaps, it was strategically useful?”

That raised a smile. “You’re rather uncanny, Mary Quinn. I shall neither confirm nor deny that.” A pause. Then, “I was just thinking about today. I think … I know you’ve offered to accompany me, and I’m grateful – but I think I’d prefer to go by myself.”

Mary watched her for a moment. “So long as you’re certain.”

Angelica nodded and swung her legs out of the bed, pushing her long braid over her shoulder. “I think all that bosh about women being too delicate to attend funerals doesn’t really apply in this case. If I’m strong enough to visit my father in jail, I’m certainly capable of burying him.”

Mary nodded. “You’re much braver than anybody could reasonably expect.”

“I don’t feel brave. Or reasonable.”

“I imagine you feel numb.”

Angelica’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. “Yes. How did you guess?”

“Numbness is useful. It gets one through difficult times.”

“What sort of hard times have you been through, Mary?” Angelica sat up. “As an orphan, I expect you’re speaking with good authority.”

Mary paused. She was unwilling to share much of her own story with Angelica; to reveal just how much she had in common with the former débutante, despite first appearances. “Oh, the usual,” she said, filling the basin with a small amount of water from the jug. “I was a perfect Oliver Twist.” She washed her face briskly and came up gasping. “Lordy, that water’s cold.”

Angelica looked at her for a long moment, and Mary could almost see the questions brimming on her lips. In the end, all she said was, “Well, Oliver, we’d best get dressed if we’re to have any porridge.”

After a communal breakfast, Mary helped Angelica to dress for the funeral. This was hardly necessary: Angelica’s new wardrobe was as spare and practical as Mary’s own, obviating the need for a lady’s maid. But the newly delivered mourning clothes still lay in their box, swathed in sheets of crisp tissue paper, and Angelica was loathe to unpack them. The assumption of mourning dress was a confirmation of the fact, a public declaration of private grief.

Once dressed, Angelica surveyed herself solemnly in the long mirror: a very pale, oval face nearly overwhelmed by layers of black. She opened her lips once or twice, then shut them again. Eventually, she said, “It’s time I went.”

They walked down to the front door in silence, passing a small cluster of pupils in the corridor, who fell silent at the sight of Angelica. A hansom idled at the kerb, steps already folded down. Anne Treleaven had organized this yesterday.

As she mounted the last step up to the cab, Angelica turned to Mary. “This doesn’t feel possible,” she said, in a thick voice. “I keep thinking I’ll wake in my own bed and discover this was all a dream. My old bed, I mean, in Cheyne Walk.”

“Are you quite certain you’d prefer to go alone?” asked Mary.

The cabman’s horse stamped and jibbed impatiently, and Angelica hastily sat down. “Yes. That is, I think it’s what Papa would prefer.”

The cabbie looked from Angelica to Mary. “All right then, miss?” At her nod, he slammed the door and climbed stiffly into the driver’s seat. Mary’s last sight of Angelica was hindered by the black veil, but there was no mistaking the hunched shoulders and bowed head.

Angelica Thorold was weeping.

Thirteen

Early afternoon, the same day