Traitor and the Tunnel (5 page)

“Perhaps,” said the Queen. “And I grant the seriousness of the attack. But if we pursue this route, the Prince of Wales wil be subjected to a public scrutiny far too painful for him to bear. There wil be scandal, not to mention the horror of a trial – good God, what if he is required to testify? Only think of what people wil say – what newspapers might print!

I cannot permit this!”

There was another prolonged silence. It was perhaps fanciful of Mary to imagine, sightless as she was behind the drapes, but this pause had a different quality. It was not a stand-off, but a sort of silent negotiation between husband and wife. Mary had witnessed this before – the rapid, minute flashes of change and exchange in their eyes. The sort of conversation only a close, long-married couple could have.

After a moment, Her Majesty once again addressed the commissioner. “The Prince Consort and I shal speak with our son tomorrow, when he is awake and calm. We shal ask the Prince of Wales to repeat his impressions of the night’s events. Once we have arrived at an understanding, we shal inform you of how we wish to proceed.”

A pause. Then, reluctantly, “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

The interview was over, bar the formalities. Mary let out a long, silent breath she hadn’t known she was holding until that moment. She raised her shoulders and wil ed her tense muscles to soften.

Outside this room, the day was starting. Servants would soon be rising. It was cutting it fine, but she ought to have time to return to the bedroom before Amy woke.

“A moment, Commissioner.” Queen Victoria’s voice sliced through Mary’s thoughts. “What is the name of this opium fiend – the murderer?”

“It’s a Chinese name, Your Majesty. Difficult to say

– even assuming he gave his real name.”

“Do your best.”

A pause. Then, haltingly, “It’s Lang.”

Mary caught her breath. The blood in her veins seemed to freeze for a long moment, then resume its course with a drunken swoop. Foolish, she scolded herself. Utter coincidence. Lang was a common-enough Chinese surname. What did it matter that it was the same as hers – the real name she’d abandoned, yet another fragment of her lost childhood?

“Why, there are Englishmen named Lang.” Prince Albert sounded the ‘g’ in Lang, making the name hard and Teutonic, not tonal and Chinese. “The name is of German origin.”

“It’s the rest of his name that gives trouble, Your Highness,” said Blake with an air of apology. “His Christian names – although I doubt he’s a Christian.

It’s something like Jinn High.”

Mary swayed and caught desperately at the window-sil for balance, suddenly knocked dizzy by two syl ables.

“Jinn what?”

“Spel ed J–i–n H–a–i, Your Majesty. Jin Hai Lang.”

Her pulse roared in her ears, so loudly she could scarcely hear the Queen’s terse thanks and dismissal.

Jin Hai Lang, a Lascar in Limehouse.

Lang Jin Hai, his name in Chinese.

An opium addict.

A murderer.

And, unless she’d gone completely mad…

Her father.

Mary stumbled back up to her attic room, kicked off her boots and climbed back under the bed-coverings. Her head ached, her pulse hammering a single rhythm through her consciousness: Lang Jin Hai. Lang Jin Hai. Her father’s name, and one of the few things about him she could remember.

He was gone – lost at sea when she was a smal child – risking al on a mission to uncover truth. His death was the reason she and her mother had suffered so. The bone-deep cold and perpetual hunger. Her mother’s desperate turn to prostitution and, not long after, her death. Mary’s own years on the streets, keeping alive as a pickpocket and housebreaker. The inevitable arrest and trial, and the certainty of death – so very close, she’d al but felt the noose about her neck.

And then, miraculously, her rescue. The women of the Agency had given her life anew. Mary Lang, only child of a Chinese sailor and an Irish seamstress, was gone for ever. She’d been re-born as Mary Quinn, orphan. Educated at Miss Scrimshaw’s Academy for Girls. Trained as an undercover agent.

An exciting, hopeful, active life had lain before her.

Until this morning.

Mary pressed her palms to her temples, as though that might stil the roar of her blood. The blood she shared with an opium fiend and a murderer. The father she’d longed so desperately to rediscover. At least while she’d thought him dead.

What if it were a hideous, improbable coincidence? There might be another Lascar who shared her father’s name. What else had the police said of him? “Elderly”, they’d cal ed him. That was superficial y comforting. Yet her father, had he lived, would now be in his late forties or early fifties – old enough, especial y for a wind-blown, sun-beaten working man. It was not unthinkable that her father might appear elderly. What else did she know of her father? Only that in his youth he’d resembled Prince Albert: his nickname around Limehouse had been

“Prince”. Was it possible for such a resemblance to persist, through years of hard living and wayfaring?

Her chances of getting a look at this Lang Jin Hai were slender. He was in prison and soon to be arraigned as the murderer of the dishonourable Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth. He might be charged with the even graver crime of high treason, depending upon the Queen’s decision. For the Queen, this whole affair was largely a question of propriety, yet nobody was wil ing to chal enge her views – not even the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. That rankled, too. It wasn’t that Mary wanted the Prince of Wales’s reputation sul ied, or the royal family disgraced through its association with Beaulieu-Buckworth. But Queen Victoria’s unquestioned authority in this matter raised other, even more dangerous questions about the sort of justice Lang Jin Hai might receive.

A new thought came to Mary: what if the Prince was mistaken about what he had seen? What if he’d seen a struggle and a death, but leapt to conclusions about the causes? He’d been slightly injured, of course – perhaps breathless and frightened and nursing his bruises when Beaulieu-Buckworth confronted the Lascar. What if Lang – as she must cal him, whether he was her father or not – had attacked Prince Albert Edward first in an opium-induced haze without recognizing him at al ? Lang may even have acted in self-defence, protecting himself from what he saw as a pair of aggressive, drunken toffs. Why, Beaulieu-Buckworth might even have picked up the knife and been the first to wield it!

She sat up suddenly, fingertips tingling. She’d been blind – a fool – as bad as the Queen herself, in failing to address facts. No, she’d been worse. She, of al people, ought to know that appearances could deceive, that things weren’t always as they seemed.

How could she have assumed, like al those narrow-minded children of privilege, that Lang was guilty?

Across the room the lump that was Amy stirred and mumbled something. Mary sprang out of bed.

She would have to investigate. Uncover the truth.

And, possibly, fight to save an innocent man.

A man who might be her father.

Five

Sunday afternoon

Acacia Road, St John’s Wood

Miss Scrimshaw’s Academy for Girls looked much like every other house in Acacia Road: a large, redbrick vil a with a high, wrought-iron fence about the perimeter. It was a girls’ school in the usual sense, with teachers and pupils and lessons and meals. Slightly less usual was its approach. It selected girls careful y, charging no fees for their education. And its philosophy was, in many senses, revolutionary. It taught that women were more than domestic angels and helpmeets, and prepared its pupils for lives of independence and dignified, skil ed work.

But it was the attic at Miss Scrimshaw’s that held its most incendiary secret: an al -female intel igence agency that used the stereotype of the harmless, weak-minded woman to its advantage. The Agency placed spies in settings unthinkable for men –

kitchen scul eries, ladies’ boudoirs, positions as governesses. Its successes were formidable.

Eighteen months after being admitted to its ranks, Mary was stil amazed by her good fortune.

Today, however, she let herself in at the gate with a sense of unease. The visit she real y needed to pay lay in a different direction. Scotland Yard were holding Lang Jin Hai at the Tower of London – a location that fil ed Mary with superstitious dread. It was a legendary gaol, the sort of place one associated with traitors of the highest order. It even had an access gate into the Thames known as the Traitors’ Gate, for al those who had passed through it. She hadn’t the faintest idea how one went about visiting prisoners in gaol, let alone at the Tower. And even if she had, she was far from ready to face this man who might be her father. Almost anything –

even diving into the Thames – seemed easier.

A more appealing, if cowardly, prospect was trying to help him from afar. Yet here was another fine mess. She’d only just been recal ed from the assignment (complete with that strange proviso “no danger”), only to find that she desperately needed to stay. How else could she monitor the case against Lang Jin Hai and the royal family’s role in it?

Remaining on the case was her only chance of overhearing further discussions between the Queen and Scotland Yard. Yet Anne and Felicity did nothing lightly. They would require a great deal of persuasion to let her stay on, even in this puzzling absence of danger.

Mary stopped, drew a steadying breath, and resolved to do only what was necessary on this case without letting her emotions overtake her. To solve the mysterious thefts from the Palace. To do al she could for Lang, while preserving her distance. And, most importantly, to keep her mixed-race parentage a secret. It was too complicated. Certain to mark her out as different. Foreign. Tainted. It was a hindrance and a handicap, when al she wanted was to blend in

– with the outside world, but especial y here.

She walked past the front door and round the side of the building to the Agency’s private entrance. She was expected. Only a moment after her coded knock, a thin, bespectacled woman opened the narrow door.

“Good afternoon, Miss Treleaven.”

Anne’s watchful grey eyes scanned her face.

“Good afternoon, my dear.” She indicated the stairs.

“After you.”

Mary felt a sudden impulse to throw herself into Anne’s arms, weeping – as though a childish confession would right everything that was wrong in her life! – and she had to restrain herself with real effort before climbing the narrow, four-storey staircase to the attic.

The Agency’s office looked more like a teachers’

common room than a secret headquarters: slightly shabby, with an assortment of mismatched chairs and sofas salvaged over the years. There was the usual tea tray, the brightly polished lamps and – very happily – a blazing fire.

As Mary entered the room, Felicity Frame turned expectantly. Her eyes widened at Mary’s muddy, bedraggled state. “My dear, al this way on foot?

Most unnecessary.”

“I needed the walk, Mrs Frame,” explained Mary.

She was always slightly shy of Felicity’s beauty and rather theatrical manner. “And I don’t mind the rain.”

Something glinted in Felicity’s eye – Mary was almost certain she would ask an uncomfortable question – but she said only, “As you prefer.”

“Sit by the fire,” said Anne, closing the door quietly behind her. “You’l soon dry.” She took one of the two chairs facing Mary, while Felicity remained standing.

It was an awkward arrangement, but neither woman seemed aware of it.

There was a strange, hesitant silence. Mary final y broke it, saying, “I was surprised to receive your message.”

Anne nodded. “It’s a highly irregular situation. I should like first to emphasize that it has nothing to do with your performance on the case.”

A weight she hadn’t quite realized she carried was plucked from Mary’s chest, and she breathed a little more deeply. “That is a relief.”

“In fact, it’s a damn shame you’re so set on recal ing her,” said Felicity in a velvety but definitely combative tone.

Anne blinked rapidly – a sign of irritation, Mary knew from experience. “Let us explain the situation first, before entering into reproaches and fantasies.”

Felicity smiled, her eyes holding a complex blend of triumph and anger. “The explanation is simple enough, my dear.” It was unclear whether “my dear”

referred to Anne or to Mary. “As you know, London’s entire drainage system is to be repaired and rebuilt.

This

includes

the

ancient

sewers

beneath

Buckingham Palace which, according to my contacts at Westminster, are in exceedingly poor condition. I’ve learned from these same sources the name of the firm engaged to perform these urgent and highly confidential repairs. It is—”

Mary eyed her with disbelief. She wasn’t going to say… Oh, God, anything but this.

“Easton Engineering.”

Mary stared at Felicity for a long moment, wil ing that name unsaid. Her cheeks, forehead, even the tips of her ears were scorching hot, which meant that she was blushing furiously. Her heart kicked wildly against her rib-cage. Her throat seemed too smal . It was preposterous. A prank. Utterly ludicrous, to think that in a city of a mil ion souls, she should keep crossing paths with this one man. She’d never believe it in fiction.