Traitor and the Tunnel (27 page)

It took her several moments to realize what might be the matter. He was in a nightmare of sorts, a recent and familiar one. She watched as he tracked an invisible figure, flinched as the figure approached, then moved past him. His attention was riveted just a few feet away and he gasped at what he saw.

“Don’t, Bucky – just – no – somebody –” he glanced sightlessly about his bedroom, looking for someone to intervene – “oh, God, Bucky, don’t do it!” His eyes dilated further and he flinched as at an invisible blow.

“Stop it, oh somebody stop him!”

Mary could take no more. She found a decanter of dark amber liquid and flung its contents into Bertie’s face. He half-screamed as the liquid fil ed his mouth and soaked his face, then promptly began to splutter and hack. His shirt and smoking jacket were very wet and the room suddenly reeked of brandy. It was a long coughing fit – his ears were purple before he’d finished – but eventual y, he blinked up at Mary with watery, bloodshot, focused eyes.

“What – what the devil did you do that for?” He clutched his red, tear-streaked face and gazed up at her with reproach.

“With respect, sir, I thought it unhealthy to al ow you to continue. You seemed … beyond yourself.”

He gazed at her, struggling to comprehend. “I was crying?”

“Among other things.”

Bertie’s expressions were utterly transparent. He frowned, puzzled. Had a glimpse of insight. Then, his jaw slackened and he gasped in disbelief as memory rushed back. He stared at Mary with a blend of horror and excitement. “Could I have been dreaming, do you think?”

“I don’t know, sir.” She forced herself to be honest.

“I thought you might be either dreaming or remembering.”

“Yes.” He nodded, slowly at first and then with increasing conviction. “Yes. I remember. I’m remembering! I think I’ve been dreaming about it, too – every night since it happened – but I’ve never been able to recal my dreams, never in my life. But this – this is different. I’m remembering, not inventing, I’m sure of it. I’d swear to it.” His elation col apsed. “I expect I’l have to, once I tel Mother.”

She had to know. It was none of her concern, official y, but she couldn’t bear the suspense. “Do you mean – the dreadful thing that happened to you on Saturday night, sir?”

He stared at her, suddenly shamefaced. “Yes. I expect you’ve heard al about it.”

“Not from the servants, sir – gossip’s strictly forbidden. I know only what you told me the other day.”

His relief was almost comical. “Of course! Right.

Yes. Wel , that’s best. Gossip’s a dangerous thing.”

But he was going to tel the Queen. That was what mattered. Although, of course, it no longer mattered as it once had. Mary no longer felt capable of appreciating irony. “I’m sorry about the brandy, sir.”

He blinked down at his soaking-wet clothes. “No harm done, I suppose – though I’l have to explain to Mother how I got through that much brandy in such a short time.”

“There are always your equerries, sir…”

He half-smiled. “Yes. They may final y be of use.”

“Are you sure you’re al right, sir? Are there medicines you’re meant to take?”

He shook his head.

“Even after the … the tragedy? Your physician left nothing, no special instructions?”

Another denial – and then, suddenly, “Oh, no –

wait. He left some blue pil s. And some calming drops.”

Mary’s mouth twisted. “A good idea just now, I think. Where is the bottle?”

“Dunno.”

She waited.

“Dressing room, perhaps. But I’d rather have more wine. That calms me, too.”

“Let’s begin with the medicine,” said Mary, as she left the sitting room. “I’l fetch some dry linens, too.”

Bertie’s bedroom was a strange place. The bed and night table were old and good, yet almost puritan in their austerity; the bed was plainly made with a wool en blanket. These, presumably, represented the Prince Consort’s ideas about the unpretentious simplicity of healthy young manhood.

But sprinkled throughout the room were the lavish items preferred by his son – embroidered silk dressing-gowns and gold-filigreed opera glasses; an ornate clock with mother-of-pearl inlay and a rather good oil painting of a voluptuous maiden, clutching a trailing scarf to preserve her modesty.

Mary smiled and wondered if the painting disappeared when Bertie’s parents inspected his bedroom, as they almost certainly did. The dressing room was a smal place, probably not original y intended for an adult’s use, jammed with row upon row of apparel: crisp linen shirts, silk cravats, morning suits, evening suits, an entire rack of top hats, riding costumes, fishing jacket, cricket whites, fencing costumes and even a pair of boxing gloves.

Mary picked her way through these excesses to a smal chest of drawers whose surface was, again, a cramped abundance of pomades, lotions, colognes, shaving implements, ivory-handled hairbrushes and other mysterious male beauty products. There was no room here for unwanted medicines.

With a hesitant hand, she explored the drawers one by one: silk stockings and rol ed-up pairs of braces; undergarments, again silk; and in the bottom drawer, nightcaps and handkerchiefs, neatly pressed. She was taking a couple of handkerchiefs with good conscience when her fingers brushed against something hard and smooth.

She froze. Had she the right to pry like this?

Fetching medicines and linens was one thing; sifting the contents of Bertie’s closet quite another.

She heard his voice, reedy and querulous, from the sitting room. “Mary? What’s taking you so long?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I can’t see the medicine.

What sort of bottle was it?” She twitched aside the next handkerchief to uncover a smal porcelain vase decorated with a neoclassical painting of two women embracing: Persephone and Demeter, reunited.

“Never mind the medicine,” came Bertie’s voice, anxious now. “I don’t need it. Just – come back here and have another glass of wine with me.”

“I – I ought to find it, just in case. You may need it later.”

A moment’s silence. And then Bertie appeared in the doorway of the dressing room. “Just don’t open…”

She turned to him, revealing the open drawer, the bright gloss of glazed porcelain.

He swal owed. Flushed. “Oh. I see you’ve found …

er … I bought the vase for my mother’s birthday.

Don’t tel her, wil you? It’s a surprise.”

“Her Majesty’s birthday is in May.”

“Wel , yes. I like to be prepared. Sometimes you just see something, don’t you, and you think, ‘That’s it! It’s perfect.’”

Such desperate, transparent lies saddened her more than anything. It must have been evident in her expression: he fel silent. She stood the vase on the last few square inches of space on the chest of drawers, nudging aside a hairbrush and a jar of unguent to make room. “It’s a charming vase,” she said quietly.

He swal owed, said nothing.

“May I take it out to the sitting room? The light’s better there.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Al right.” She stood, closed the drawer and fol owed him back through the bedroom to the sitting room.

He found his wineglass and knocked back its contents. “You’ve been kind to me. Not only today, but during our past conversations. I suppose that’s what gave me the courage to – you know.” He gestured. “Anyway. That’s al I meant to say.”

It was a clear dismissal but she stood her ground.

“I’m afraid I have something more to say, sir.”

He refused to look at her.

“It’s about the vase, sir. I noticed it was missing yesterday as I was cleaning the Blue Room.”

“Don’t be ridiculous: how could you know it’s the same vase you think might be missing?”

“The things on the mantel were rearranged, sir.

And the vase – it’s one of a pair. It’s the paintings, sir.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask for specifics: she couldn’t see a housemaid explaining the myth of Persephone to the classical y-educated Prince.

He remained silent and stil .

“I imagine you have your reasons for having taken it, sir…” Although she couldn’t imagine what they might be. He was heir to al this vast wealth. And he had a generous al owance now from his parents.

Was it a game of sorts? A new and indirect way to distress his mother? Mary doubted it: Bertie lacked that sort of subtle cruelty.

He spoke quite suddenly. “Yes, I have. I incurred some debts – the horses, y’know. I hope you’l have the decency to keep this quiet, Quinn.” At her surprised look, his tone became defensive. “It’s only a vase. There are thousands more scattered through the Palace and in its stores. It’s not especial y valuable. And if you don’t report it, chances are nobody wil ever notice it’s gone.” He forced a grin.

“So how about it, eh? We’re friends now, aren’t we?”

Mary stared at him with – yes, more pity. “Your Highness, if this were my decision alone, I would keep quiet. Truly, I would.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “But…”

“But there’s been more than one theft, hasn’t there?”

His jaw hardened. “Has there?”

“Yes. And a maid’s been sacked over them. She’s out on the street – no job, no letter of character, no money. And now the housekeeper thinks I stole this vase to try to clear her name.” She watched the unwelcome news sink into Bertie’s brain. Watched him deny. Struggle. And then, very gradual y, relent.

“So if I don’t come forward…” he said, very slowly.

“Amy Tranter wil never find work in service again.

And I’l be out of a job as soon as Mrs Shaw finds a good enough reason.”

“Oh, God.” Bertie buried his face in his hands, this time in simple despair rather than hysteria.

It was difficult not to reach out to console him, rub his head. Spoilt, entitled and weak he might be, but he was a fundamental y good-hearted young man attempting to live up to very public expectations that were perhaps unrealistic.

After a short eternity, he raised his eyes to hers.

“I’l do it. I’l tel my mother.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. It’s—”

He interrupted her with a gesture. “Never mind that. Just go.”

“Yes, sir.” As she left the room, she cast one last glance at the Prince. He stood in the window, hands planted flat on the wide sil . His eyes were closed and he appeared to be thinking or praying.

Her sympathy was worth nothing to him, but he had it al the same.

Twenty-eight

The Bertie episode had taken a great deal of time, long enough that Mrs Shaw would demand an explanation for her absence. Mary was quite looking forward to it. Having so unexpectedly succeeded in completing her original assignment, she would now take great pleasure in being sacked. It would, in theory, be even more satisfying to resign first, but that was strictly against Agency protocol: an agent never left her post in a showy or confrontational fashion. Even Mary’s sore shoulder and ringing headache felt like a reasonable sacrifice now that things had unfolded so neatly.

As she approached the housekeeper’s room to request some wil ow-bark powder – and, of course, to initiate the fateful conversation with Mrs Shaw –

she heard the housekeeper declare, “I decline to summon any member of my staff at a stranger’s request. Furthermore, I fail to understand how you gained access to this part of the Palace.”

The voice that fol owed sent an electric tingle across Mary’s skin. “The latter is no mystery, ma’am: I walked in through the servants’ door. But can I not impress upon you how urgent my errand is? I must speak to Miss Quinn.”

Laughter bubbled up in her throat and she didn’t bother to repress it. The Agency’s rules about showy departures clearly didn’t al ow for this sort of complication. She ran the last ten paces and barrel ed into Mrs Shaw’s room. “I’m here, James.

What’s the matter?”

He swung about at the first syl able. “Mary, thank God. It’s an emergency.”

Mrs Shaw rose, outraged. “This childish prank is entirely and regrettably like you, Quinn. You are—”

As James caught her arm and drew her into the corridor, Mary heard herself dismissed in the most outrageous language Mrs Shaw knew, but she hadn’t attention to spare. James wasn’t the panicking type, but he was utterly rattled now. “How can I help?”

He spoke quietly. “Find the Queen. Tel her she must evacuate the Palace. Royal family first, but al staff, too. You’re al in grave and immediate danger.”

She stared at him, mouth dry. He was in deadly earnest. Mrs Shaw had fol owed them into the corridor and stood behind him, continuing her furious harangue

against

Mary’s

many

sins

and

shortcomings.

James wrapped his hands around hers, pul ed her close. “Mary. Please. There’s no time for me to go through official channels. You’re the only one.”

He didn’t look mad. But surely… “James, I need a reason. I can’t just ask the Queen to do something without an explanation.”

“You’re not asking her; you’re tel ing her. I’ve just found explosives in that underground tunnel: crates upon crates of nitrocel ulose. She needs to clear out immediately, then cal the army to dispose of it.”

Mary nodded. “How far need she go?”

“I don’t know exactly. A mile, at least.”

“I’l suggest that she go to Kensington Palace.