Traitor and the Tunnel (10 page)

Mary knew better than to chal enge Amy’s fantasy of escape: a woman intent on freedom through marriage wouldn’t listen to a naysaying spinster.

Amy was only fol owing the usual script. Yet Mary couldn’t resist a gentle question. “D’you think you’l be happy, married to Mr Jones?”

Amy looked at her, al astonishment. “I’l be the lady of the house, and never wipe out a chamber pot again. If you don’t cal that happy, I don’t know what’s wrong with you.”

“I meant with Mr Jones.”

“Oh, Tavvy. Aye, he’s an al -right sort, I reckon. But he’s a gentleman, and that’s what’s important.”

Mary gave a philosophical shrug. At least Amy wasn’t blinded by visions of romance… “Wel , then –

about tomorrow night. What d’you want me to do?”

It was only after Amy had rol ed herself into a bal and fal en into the sleep of the just schemer that Mary’s amusement faded. She’d been dreading her next task al evening. The habits of discipline she’d learned at the Academy were strong, though, and so she pul ed a thin folder from beneath the bed, took out a sheet of cheap paper, a pen and a bottle of ink, and prepared to write a letter.

Her father could read and write adequately. His reply – if he replied – would be an immediate first test of his identity. Unless, of course, he was too weak to write and had to dictate a letter. Or the opium had addled his brain. Or they didn’t trust him with a pen. The possibilities were several.

Nevertheless, she would begin with a letter.

Dear Mr Lang –

She stared at the words, and then at the expanse of blank notepaper beneath. She could hardly start with I may be your daughter. She gazed at the page until her eyes lost focus, until she could see and smel the bittersweet poverty of her childhood home.

A loud snore from the other side of the room made her jump, and she returned to the present.

Final y, she dipped her pen again and wrote: I may have information that could help your case. Please reply as soon as you are well enough to receive callers.

Yours sincerely,

A friend

She blotted the page in one swift gesture, not pausing to re-read the letter. A moment later it was sealed, direction written, penny stamp applied, and she was pul ing on her coat and hat. Slipping out to the nearest pil ar box after hours was a risk, but a far lesser one than keeping that letter overnight. And if she got the response she needed, it was the least of the risks she’d have to run in the next few days.

Leaving the Palace without Mrs Shaw’s permission was strictly forbidden. But, like many forbidden things, it was also rather easy. At night, as was the custom in grand houses, the footmen slept outside the store-rooms, the better to guard Her Majesty’s valuable plate. Any thief who evaded the Yeomen of the Guard outside the Palace should then have to bypass at least one large, cricket-bat-wielding manservant before getting near the royal candlestick-holders. However, Mary had discovered early on that the footmen nearest the service door were the youngest, the newest, the hardest-worked –

and thus also the deepest sleepers. One could tiptoe past them with perfect confidence. In fact, she’d wager that if she lit a string of firecrackers beneath their trundle beds, the commotion would only cause them to push their faces deeper into their pil ows.

So Mary let herself out through the servants’

entrance without much concern for the inner guardians of the Palace. Outside, however, were the real sentries – the Queen’s Guard, whose duty it was to protect their sovereign, not her silverware. They were trained, armed, disciplined. Mary shivered. At this moment, she stil had a choice. The first possibility was to play the dizzy, naughty maidservant, tripping out after dark to post an il icit letter. Her success in that case, however, would depend on the character of the soldier in the guard box. If he was lenient, he might let her get away with it. But that route left far too much power in the hands of one unknown man. What if he was dutiful? Worse, what if he required payment for his silence?

It was too uncertain. She set out – westwards into the gardens, away from the grand entrance gates. In the open courtyard, fat raindrops thudded heavily against her hat, fel startlingly cold onto her cheeks.

Between the dark and fog and steady sleet, it was difficult to see anything. The mass of shadows in the middle distance, however, was certainly a stand of densely-grown hawthorns, perhaps twice the height of a man. She had seen the young Princes and Princesses playing in front of them, using a natural hol ow as a sort of playhouse. And she knew that they grew against the tal iron fence that encircled the Palace grounds.

The night was unnervingly stil . In the elegant streets beyond, there was only silence – not even the clatter of a dustman’s cart – and the outlying parks fil ed with carriages only during the fashionable hours. After her early years around Limehouse and Soho, Mary had thought St John’s Wood – home of the Agency – quiet and peaceful at night. But the northern suburbs positively bustled compared with her current streetscape. It was al about density, she supposed. In east London, it was common for several families and their animals to share a pair of rooms in a ramshackle tenement. Here, one family with its domestic staff occupied a few acres of Palace and park, making for a peaceable hush at night. Yet the hol ow emptiness of Westminster made her feel edgier than did the seedy violence of Soho or the Haymarket. Nobody about. No one to hear her scream.

A slight rustling in the hedge made her start. She stared furiously into the shadows, wil ing whatever it was to move again. It did not. A change in the wind, perhaps – or a bird. She would not permit herself to speculate further. She moved steadily, holding herself in readiness – for what she didn’t know.

Perhaps that was the point. As she reached the play-hol ow, she stopped and listened again.

Nothing. Was it possible she’d imagined the first rustle? She was certainly jumpy enough. After waiting a ful three minutes, she pressed on. The branches were long and tangled, and although she could shield her face with one hand, their thorns caught at her hat and sleeve, pul ed at her skirts.

She’d be a fine mess when she got in. With time and patience, however, she pushed through. In a way, the tearing thorns affirmed that no human, at least, could be lurking within the hedge, for al her vivid suspicions.

The fence was surprisingly low, a wrought-iron affair perhaps one-and-a-half times a man’s height.

It was details like this that reminded Mary of the Palace’s history as a grand home and pleasure palace, but not a state residence. It was no wonder that the occasional lunatic managed to wander into the grounds. One could hardly expect a fence like this, abutted with shrubbery, to keep out the determined. Or to keep them in.

Mary found a toehold at waist level, pul ed herself up, and balanced with care over the rather spiky top.

It was a simple matter of using her arms, and hoping her petticoats didn’t catch as she went over. When she dropped down on the other side, she wasn’t even breathless. The hawthorns had been the greater chal enge. From here, it was only a hundred yards or so to the nearest pil ar box. Then back over the fence. In ten minutes, she’d be in bed.

She fought her way through the brambles for a second time, cursing the tiny hooks that gripped at her clothing with such tenacity, and emerged annoyed but warmed by her little adventure. Then she looked across the garden towards the Palace, at the yel ow lights winking from the odd exposed window, and felt suddenly cold. Al the feelings she had long suppressed overcame her at last, making her stagger. It was like a physical blow: she was not just alone, but lonely.

The solitary state was nothing new, of course. But she was lonely now for different reasons. She was lonely despite the possibility of family – perhaps because of that very likelihood. Because she might not be absolutely, truly alone, after al , and she might have preferred it so. Her fingers went to her throat, touching the reassuring lump of her pendant. She found it uncomfortable to wear now. Not literal y, for the pendant was smal and weighed very little. But each time she touched it or felt the slither of its chain about her neck, she writhed and tried not to think of the man who might be her father.

She’d considered taking the necklace off, of course. Or throwing it into the river. She had the power to erase the last tangible link to her past, just like that. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.

Too frightened to face the truth. Too afraid to bury it.

When had she become such a coward?

Mary stopped short. She’d always despised cowardice. Found it difficult to understand in others, much less sympathize with it. But here she was now, sidling away from the real problem. A man cal ed Lang Jin Hai was locked in a prison cel , old and il , likely abused by guards, awaiting trial for murder –

and al she’d done was write him a letter. What a stupid, useless thing she’d chosen – hoping he’d not reply, hoping she could salve her conscience by saying that she’d tried. When she considered the problem in theory – the injustice of a man falsely accused – she burned with anger. Yet the shame of being related to such a man – a kil er, an opium addict – made her shrivel. She was wasting her time, tiptoeing about the Palace and hoping that Prince Bertie might remember something, that his mother might extend leniency to this foreign criminal.

But even if they did – a vast and unlikely assumption

– such so-cal ed success would bring her no closer to the real problem. Whatever happened to Lang Jin Hai, she wouldn’t have come anywhere near dealing with him as she ought to. As she needed to.

She had to confront Lang Jin Hai. She would have to gain access to his gaol, somehow, and speak with him. Only by seeing him could she know whether he was in fact her father, or whether it was al a grotesque coincidence. She’d no idea which scenario she might prefer.

Ten

As she re-entered the Palace, Mary was cold, distracted, brooding – three reasons why she nearly walked into the furtive figure creeping along the servants’ corridor. It was only her training that saved her – had her stopping behind a door-frame, even before she knew why. For this was no ordinary prowler. Not a footman investigating a strange noise. Not another maid on an il icit errand. The tal figure was instantly recognizable, her elegant posture thrown into relief by the candle flickering in her hand. It was, of al people, Honoria Dalrymple.

Mary gave her a short lead, then fol owed with soundless steps. The lady-in-waiting had no reason to be in the servants’ quarters. Even in the unlikely event that she had wanted a cup of hot milk before bed, she had only to ring for her maid. Yet here she was, picking her careful way past the butler’s pantry until she reached a flight of stairs. She paused, as though summoning courage. Then she opened the heavy door and began her journey into the subterranean kitchens.

Mary rubbed her eyes. It was almost too perfect to be true, as though her tortured brain had produced a hal ucination spectacular enough to distract her from thoughts of Lang Jin Hai. Yet even as she paused, she heard the soft clop of Honoria’s shoes against the rough stone steps. Honoria had left the door slightly ajar, rather as though she didn’t expect to be long. Mary thought about her choices – but only for a moment. Nothing in the world could have kept her from fol owing the Honourable Honoria Dalrymple into the bowels of the Palace.

She waited a few seconds longer, then peeked down the stairs. Smiled widely. And descended. The stone floors were worn smooth, here in the heart of the original Buckingham House. It had undergone generations of renovations, including very recent ones to create nurseries for Her Majesty’s young family, but the kitchens had remained unchanged. It was perhaps a shame – they were dank and smoky, desperately smal for the large staff, and, Mary imagined, a positive inferno in the warmer months. In present circumstances, though, they were cosy and warm, the coals from the banked-down fires offering just enough light for Mary to track Honoria’s movements across the sloping flagged floor.

As the heel of Honoria’s shoe scraped loudly against an uneven section of flagstone, she glanced down and sniffed. Tense as she was, Mary couldn’t repress a smile. So the snobbery wasn’t an act put on for the Queen’s benefit: even a humble square of stone could be found remiss. Honoria halted before what Mary thought of as the herbarium – not that any of the staff cal ed it by such a grandiose title. It was a smal space, like an open room, near the two vast bread ovens where al the Palace baking took place.

At summer’s end, the cook-maids hung large, bushy bundles of thyme, rosemary, sage and tarragon from the ceilings. These dried in the heat of the nearby fires, then were packed into dark cupboards for the winter. Now, the smal space was empty, although perfumed by the ghosts of those aromatics.

Holding her candle aloft, Honoria began to look about – not suspiciously, but with earnest enquiry.

The upper halves of each wal were fitted with open shelves where less frequently used equipment – jel y moulds, especial y large basins – were stored.

Below were cupboards that held, presumably, the dried herbs and other goods. Her large, elegant hands skimmed the shelves and she peered into cupboards as though searching for just the right cake tin. It was a most unlikely sight.