Rivals in the City (18 page)

As she slipped noiselessly back into the room, Mary saw Angelica sprawled face down on her bed, shoulders shaking, weeping quietly, violently, into her hands. Mary watched her in uncomfortable silence. This was the most reprehensible part of a morally questionable job: taking advantage of those who truly needed help. But if Angelica said something useful in these moments of abandon, that would, for Mary, justify the betrayal. It was just possible, Mary supposed, that this scene of grief was also staged – part of a complicated performance in several acts, meant to elicit trust and sympathy. But it was the less likely scenario. After a few moments, she slid back into the corridor, keeping the door ajar. It was enough to listen.

Even the most devoted daughter had only so much energy for stormy weeping, and after several minutes Angelica’s intensity slackened. From the change in tone, Mary thought Angelica was no longer covering her face. Mary pictured her sprawled prone on the bed, face turned to one side, mopping her face with a handkerchief. There was a distinct sort of lull – sniffles and sighs and the odd murmur of “Oh, Papa” – but the storm had passed.

Mary eyed the door. In her experience, this period of calm was the best time in which to gain someone’s confidence. This was the moment in which to appear with a clean handkerchief and a sympathetic ear, and carefully unspool a confession from her weary subject. She pushed down her distaste, forcing herself to think of Mrs Thorold, and prepared to step back into the room. In that moment, she heard Angelica’s voice, soft, but clear and intelligible. It said, “What shall I do, Papa?” A sniffle. “Shall I meet her?”

The question raised goose bumps across Mary’s neck and arms. She held her breath, waiting two, three, ten eternal seconds, then released it softly.

Angelica said, “She didn’t come. She could have. She knew it was your funeral, and she didn’t come.” Another pause, then plaintively, as if to the uncaring world: “What kind of wife does that? What kind of mother?” Another charged silence, then a sigh of disgust. “As if talking to myself could help the matter. I’ll end up in an asylum, at this rate.”

A faint rattle of china and silver at the end of the corridor distracted Mary from this revealing monologue. She glided silently towards the approaching maid and took the heavy tray from her with a smile. “Thank you, Rachel. I’ll take it into the room.” Small Rachel, the newest and youngest of the Academy’s kitchen staff, flexed her arms in relief and vanished back into the depths of the house.

When Mary entered the bedroom, all calm innocence and steaming tea tray, Angelica was sitting up on the bed, dabbing her swollen eyes with a fresh handkerchief. “That was quick,” she said, and blew her nose with an unladylike honk.

“Was it?” Mary lifted the covers and discovered a large plate of buttered toast, a deep bowl of beef broth and another plate of jam biscuits. Anne Treleaven must have been hovering near the kitchen when the order came in.

Angelica made a quavering attempt at a laugh. “If this is what you fetch for somebody who’s not hungry, I can’t wait to see your idea of a square meal.”

“If you can’t manage it, I will,” promised Mary. “I have an astounding capacity for buttered toast.”

Angelica was already sinking her teeth into a warm triangle. “Who doesn’t?” When she had drunk the soup and polished off the toast, Angelica sighed with satisfaction. “That felt like a proper schoolgirl feast. We used to have them now and again, at my finishing school.” Her mouth twisted. “Then we’d help each other lace our corsets extra tightly and go to bed. Can you imagine? A stomach full of cakes and sweets, and shallow breathing all night so the stays didn’t dig in so much. Lord, it was agony.”

“But you did it again,” observed Mary.

“Every chance we got.”

In the small lull that followed their laughter, Mary asked, “Do you miss your old life?”

Angelica considered. “I miss its ease,” she said, slowly. “I never spared a thought for the essentials: eating and staying warm and always having clean clothes to wear. I appreciate those comforts immensely, now. But do I miss the balls and parties, the constant calls upon people who bored me silly, the imperative to marry well? Not at all. I’m far happier eking out a life as a music student in a foreign country where I have only friends of my own choosing. No family to worry about. I’ll be glad to return to Vienna.”

Mary nodded. But before her sympathy for Angelica could root itself too deeply, she introduced the necessary subject. “Speaking of your journey… Yesterday, I took that advert to the
Times
, as promised. It’s only a very slim chance that she’s seen it, I know, but I don’t suppose you’ve heard from your mother yet?”

Angelica flushed quite suddenly, from collar to hairline. “I–I’d quite forgotten about the ad,” she whispered. “Thank you.” She swallowed hard, and Mary’s unanswered question hung in the air between them. After a couple of false starts, Angelica said, “You’re right, of course: it’s quite unlikely that she’d notice it, even if she were in England and reading the newspaper.” An attempt at a laugh. “I’m not certain why I thought it such a good idea at the time.”

“I encouraged you,” said Mary. “You’d spoken of a strong desire to see your mother.”

“I did, didn’t I? Those dreams.”

Mary watched her carefully, the shifting undercurrents of her expression. A strong desire to tell. An equally powerful impulse to secrecy. Guilt. Confusion. Anger. Fear. Longing. She thought she understood how Angelica felt. She’d been in a parallel situation herself not so long ago, with the nightmare reappearance of her father, and she’d kept silent. “Well,” she said, twirling a teaspoon between her fingers, “if she suddenly appears, I’m sure you’ll know what to do.”

“D’you think so?”

“Why not?” said Mary. She felt ruthless. “She’s your mother, after all.”

Angelica looked distinctly queasy. “Yes,” she finally replied. “I suppose she is.”

Fourteen

Saturday, 20 October

Gordon Square, Bloomsbury

J
ames awoke suddenly, well before sunrise. He blinked and sat up, wondering at the churning excitement in his stomach. It wasn’t unpleasant; it reminded him of Christmas mornings from his childhood, the bone-deep knowledge that lovely things were soon to come. A moment later, his brain caught up with his body. Today was Saturday. Mudie’s day. He had an appointment to meet Mary at the lending library. Today would be their first glimpse of each other in a week. His pulse quickened at the very thought of it. Her face. Her voice. The small weight of her hand upon his forearm.

He glanced back at his pillow and tried to imagine her there: Mrs James Easton. Dark hair spilling over the crisp white linen. The curves of her body beneath a thin nightdress. The scent of her favourite lemon soap enveloping them both. He trembled. Yet even as his imagination took flight, some dark part of his mind transformed the scene: from bed to bier, from white linen to velvet-lined casket. From warm, soft flesh to cold, rigid limbs. His stomach roiled in an entirely different way and he leapt from the bed, so desperate was he to shake off that malignant fancy.

In the bathroom he washed with cool water, eager for a rational reason to shiver, and wondered at the sudden turn his imagination had taken. He considered himself realistic, and was keenly aware of the potential dangers he and Mary faced. Yet he wasn’t given to gloom and dark foreboding; he’d always considered such things a waste of time. And now his foolish imagination had cast a pall over what should have been a day of delicious, near-impossible anticipation. He tried not to give it weight, but it troubled him nevertheless.

Fortunately, Saturday was a working day. There was plenty to keep him busy until the appointed hour. A couple of years ago, Easton Engineering had embraced the new Saturday half-holiday movement, closing the offices at one o’clock in the afternoon. It was good for their employees’ morale, and thus good for business. For James, Saturday afternoons were typically a time in which to catch up on paperwork. Put that way, it sounded dreary, but James didn’t mind. He liked the silent office, the slightly quieter streets. George generally popped in, and they repaired to a chop-house or ordered in meals from the nearby pub, and caught up. They began by briefing each other on how their respective building works were coming along, but it was also the most companionable time of their week. Engineering talk trickled into more general conversation, and James seldom felt closer to his brother than during those informal meetings.

Before that, however, there was much to do. He breakfasted swiftly and alone – after that tête-à-tête on Sunday morning, George had returned immediately to his late-rising ways – and set out briskly for the office as the sun was still rising. James loved the city at this time, the way the sun burnished the roof-tops and windows, lending it the illusory gleam of a city of gold. On the more frequent days when the sun lurked sullenly behind the clouds, there was still a softness to the light, a sort of hesitancy. At this hour, London was not yet the brash, cacophonous capital of commerce and trade. It was something out of a fairy tale, a shadowy city dense with characters, all awaiting their cue.

By the time he turned into Great George Street, he felt himself again. He had a new idea about the Bank of England job, but before he could sketch that out, he wanted an update from his chief clerk. Then it was time for a site visit: the bridge project had been delayed yet again, this time by the incorrect delivery of urgently needed materials. He needed to supervise this morning’s delivery in person.

The main door to the building was slightly ajar – unusual this early in the morning, as James was generally the first person to arrive. He frowned briefly, then shrugged it off: Easton Engineering shared tenancy of the building with two other firms. Someone else must have decided to use the early hours to stride ahead with their work. But as he ascended the stairs to his offices on the first floor, his instincts told him otherwise. Something was wrong here. He was visited by a swift, vivid memory of the night he’d been attacked. He rounded the corner and saw, with little surprise, the unoccupied chair outside the door. Where was the night-watchman?

Of course, the unguarded office door was unlocked. He examined it quickly. The main bolt had been picked, but not broken. Then, as though the intruder had lost patience, the two smaller locks were smashed. He pushed at the door slowly. His first thought was that it would be weighted closed by the inert body of the watchman. When the door swung freely, however, James’s thoughts of the missing man evaporated in the face of the utter chaos he saw within: the long room was strewn with papers, all pitched about like hay in a stable.

An involuntary curse escaped his lips, and he clamped them tight. Walking further into the room, he noted mechanically the extent of the destruction. Tables, desks and chairs were intact, although somewhat flung about. Filing cabinets dangled open, gutted like fish. Cupboards gaped. Desk drawers drooped and tilted, showing their empty depths. Shelves had been comprehensively cleared with the sweep of an arm. And above all this carnage, the large wall clock ticked on steadily.

James thought he understood: this was no ordinary burglary. Otherwise, they’d have taken the clock, the furniture, the technical instruments. No, the intruders had been after information, and he was quite certain what they wanted. He crossed the length of the office to a door with a maimed doorknob. He swallowed hard and steadied his breathing. Opened the door. Saw what he’d expected, and feared: the heavy steel door of the vault, like all the other doors, slightly ajar. As though the thief had thought to close it, then changed his mind at the last moment. No:
her
mind.

He opened the vault door, to be certain. Empty. Closed it with a groan. He forced himself to walk through the ruins, checking each corner, surveying the full extent of the damage. The least unpleasant aspect of it all was the absence of the night-watchman’s body. He had braced himself for the worst, but it appeared that the man had taken the opportunity to escape. Or possibly to collude with the thief.

At this notion, a scalding current of anger washed over him. He ran down into the street, shouting for a constable. He bellowed for a good while, loath to leave the office unprotected, although he wasn’t certain what further harm could come to it, short of total destruction by flood or fire. After what seemed hours but was probably only ten minutes, a constable came running. It took him a few minutes to grasp the situation, and then he was off again, swinging his rattle to summon all officers within earshot. The street was filling with workers now, a black-clad tide of clerks sweeping into the city, some of them his own employees. James was left to stand sentinel, informing them of the outrage and sending them home for the day. It was a simple task made exhausting now that the initial anaesthetic of shock and anger was fading away.

He thought of the hundreds of hours of work ahead, gathering and sorting and refiling the papers. He thought of the need to inform the Bank of England that their security was now compromised. He tried not to think of the consequences to his professional reputation, and to the family business in general. Most of all, he tried not to think of Mary.

Logic dictated that if Mrs Thorold had been busy here in Great George Street last night, Mary was probably still safe. Yet logic seemed impotent in the face of this hovering, all-encompassing danger: it was one of the very few times in his life that logic had failed him. When he realized that, a black despair seemed to grip him. It seemed that Mrs Thorold was always several steps ahead, toying with them, leisurely unfolding plans that they were powerless to disrupt. All they could do was react, and further entangle themselves in her web. Was that it? James swallowed hard. If this was the case, he might as well give up now. If there was no point in trying, one may as well embrace one’s fate and lie down meekly, waiting for Mrs Thorold to appear.

“Mr Easton, sir?” It was the original constable.