Traitor and the Tunnel (6 page)

“You see why we were forced to recal you,” said Anne, “despite the definite disadvantage it represents to our case. We shal have to place a new operative and start the process again. And we shal have to explain this to our client, of course.”

Mary stopped herself from nodding along with Anne’s al -too-reasonable logic. Her mind was stil spinning, and she said the first thing that came to mind. “Easton Engineering is a smal firm. Why were they chosen, above al others?”

Felicity nodded. “You’re correct; they are certainly not the obvious choice, and a number of more established firms would feel their noses out of joint about the appointment – if they knew of it, of course.”

Mary fought the urge to bury her face in her hands.

“It’s a secret appointment?”

“Yes, because the work itself is a security risk. Mr Easton’s work at St Stephen’s Tower this past summer

must

have

impressed

the

Chief

Commissioner of Works, for it was at his particular urging that Palace officials engaged the firm.”

“I don’t suppose it’s George Easton who’s leading this project,” said Mary without conviction.

“It’s the younger Mr Easton,” said Felicity with some satisfaction. “‘James’ to you, I believe.”

Mary promptly blushed again, even more hotly than before. “No longer,” she said – almost snapping, so vehement was her need to establish this fact. “I’ve nothing to do with him now.”

Felicity merely smiled in a maddening fashion.

“So the sewers must connect with the public drainage system,” said Mary wildly. Anything to get Felicity off this topic.

“Yes – hence the delicacy of the task,” said Anne.

She spoke quietly and rapidly, and without glancing in Felicity’s direction. “Obviously, it wouldn’t do for al and sundry to learn of the existence of these sewers.

However, the sewers are in very poor condition –

downright dangerous, according to our source. If al owed to col apse, they would not only dam the flow of an underground river, but undermine the foundations of the Palace itself.”

Mary nodded. “So if the work is being performed under such secret conditions, surely there’s no danger of my encountering him?”

Felicity nodded. “True enough; they’d hardly announce it to al the staff.” She glanced at Anne. “I rather thought the recal was an overreaction.”

“They’d be working underground,” continued Mary.

“Most of my duties are carried out within a single wing of the Palace. The chances of our meeting are almost negligible.” She was talking to persuade herself as much as her managers.

“I don’t like it,” said Anne. “A single coincidence –

Mary runs an errand, or Mr Easton steps outside for a breath of fresh air – could destroy the entire ca—”

“Even if they did meet,” said Felicity, suddenly leaning forward and fixing Mary with her green-eyed gaze, “would that be so terrible? On that murder case at Big Ben, you managed a chance encounter without destroying your cover.”

“Al the more reason we mustn’t rely on good fortune to preserve our secrecy!” Anne never, ever snapped; she spoke in even, measured tones that were a model of sangfroid. But now, her tone was so unusual y vehement that Mary stared at her, speechless.

Felicity, however, only smiled. “Temper, Anne.”

Anne swivel ed her neck and glared at Felicity. “If you must press your private agenda so openly, Felicity, you might at least take into consideration the safety of our agents. Or is even that too much to expect of you now?”

“Oh, come now – a chance encounter with James Easton wil compromise Mary’s safety? Such paranoia and subterfuge are beneath you, Anne.”

“Wait!” Mary rocketed to her feet, so anxious was she to stop the argument. “So the recal isn’t absolute? You’ve not decided precisely what ought to happen?”

“Recal ing you was my idea,” admitted Anne.

“So much for joint decision-making,” grumbled Felicity.

“Because there are new developments – not directly related to the case, but with dramatic personal significance for the royal family – that you ought to know, before making a final decision.” Mary spoke rapidly, trying to measure the effect of her words on the two women. Although she’d caught their interest, they were stil staring at each other, engaged in a separate, private contest that she didn’t ful y understand.

She pushed on, nevertheless, and informed them of the previous night’s events; of everything, of course, except her possible connection to Lang Jin Hai. As she spoke, she felt their interest gradual y –

inevitably – turning towards her. She kept her voice low, her language matter-of-fact, but it was a sensational tale nonetheless. Scandal! Murder!

Treason! Cover-up! It was the sort of story that couldn’t be dul y told – and a vein of intel igence that, Mary realized with a flash of triumph, the Agency couldn’t afford to bypass.

“What if,” she concluded, “I were to inform Mr Easton, in advance, of my presence? That way, in the unlikely event that we were to meet, he would be prepared. That would help to reduce my risk.”

“It would reduce the risk,” agreed Anne, reluctance and interest clearly warring within her. “But not as much as removing yourself entirely.”

“Contacting James Easton,” murmured Felicity. “I thought you’d no interest in meeting him again?”

Mary swal owed hard. After her last interview with James – the way he’d refused to look at her, when she’d told him of her criminal past – she’d sworn to put him from her mind. That was what she’d told Anne and Felicity, and what she’d instructed herself, too. But here he was again, bang in the middle of her path. She’d have to deal with him, in the Agency’s best interests. Wouldn’t she? She’d learned and changed a great deal over the past seven months. Hardly felt the scars of the wounds he’d caused. Didn’t she?

“What are you thinking?” asked Anne suddenly.

“There is more at stake for you, here, than simply the Agency’s interests.”

Anne was terrifyingly close to the truth. Mary squashed down the rising sense of panic in her chest, and forced herself to answer. “Placing a new agent on the case would set the Agency back several weeks at least,” she said slowly. “But you’re correct. My concern is this: I needn’t tel you what public opinion is right now, against the Chinese. It’s al about us, every time we open a certain type of newspaper. In the current climate, I worry that because the accused is a Lascar, he’l be the victim of a hasty show trial. The Queen and Prince Consort seem less concerned with the general principle of justice here, and more anxious to protect their son.

That is natural enough; but it is not right. If I stay on at the Palace, I may be able to gather information that would offer a clearer view of this man’s role in Beaulieu-Buckworth’s death.”

Anne and Felicity both listened, thoughtful, grave, patient. They’d forgotten their earlier dispute and were now simply listening to her – something they’d both always been good at. Anne was staring into the fire, its flames bright in the glass of her spectacles.

Felicity was focused on Mary herself, an inscrutable expression on her beautiful face.

Mary wil ed herself not to blush, even as she felt the blood rising in her throat, her cheeks. No one ever thought she looked Chinese; not Caucasians, at any rate. Occasional y, a Chinese person might peer at her curiously, somehow alerted to her secret

– something in the geometry of her features, the creases of her eyelids. But Mary passed, for the most

part,

as

a

slightly

exotic-looking

Englishwoman. Strangers often asked if she had French, Spanish or Portuguese blood; Italian was a popular choice right now, because Garibaldi’s triumphant progress was always in the news. But her answer – “black Irish” – was always persuasive, always enough. She hoped it would continue to be, especial y now. “These are the principles you taught me – the importance of justice, and even of second chances for those who never had a decent first chance. It’s because of what I learned from you that I need to stay on the case.”

The moment passed.

Felicity blinked.

Anne smiled. “You’ve learned the lessons of the Academy wel , my dear. The marginal figure – be it child, woman or foreigner – is always disadvantaged in our society. It is admirable of you to wish to investigate further, and I find it a sufficiently compel ing reason for you to stay on this case.”

“Thank you, Miss Treleaven. Might the Agency also provide some information about Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth? I think a little background research would be useful. For example, knowing to whom he is related. Al those aristocratic families are so intermarried. He might be related to the royal family, through some fifth cousin three times removed.”

Felicity nodded. “That’s not so easily done, but it’s possible.”

“Thank you.”

“But returning to the original case,” said Anne.

“Have you anything at al to report?”

“No, Miss Treleaven.”

Anne’s eyebrows rose very slightly. “Stil nothing?”

“The domestic staff were never informed of the original thefts, lest it encourage gossip. I’ve not observed anyone behaving suspiciously or flush with cash. Until the thief acts again, I can do no more than observe unexpected changes.”

Anne nodded. “I see. Wel , perhaps a little more time wil give the thief the confidence to begin again.

But without more evidence, this case may wel go unsolved.”

“Let us hope not,” grumbled Felicity. “It’s terribly unsatisfying.”

“Not to mention bad for our statistics.” The two managers smiled at each other fleetingly, and Mary felt a sudden, lovely wave of relief. Anne and Felicity were al right, then. Perhaps they’d simply been under a great deal of strain lately. Likely she’d read too much into the tension, the disagreements. Al col eagues disagreed sometimes, especial y when their work was as intense and important as that of the Agency.

Yes. That was surely al .

Her old bedroom had the thick, dusty smel of a place long abandoned. Mary glanced about the space, which was scarcely big enough to hold a single bed, a tiny wardrobe and a narrow writing-table and chair. This room had been hers for years.

She knew its every detail – the angled ceiling, the tal , narrow window – better than those of her childhood home. Yet each time she came back from a job, the room seemed unfamiliar. It always took her some time to re-adjust; to become herself again.

She disliked this sense of dislocation, and for that reason seldom visited her room while on assignment. Today, Mary almost tiptoed across its length. The desk chair creaked slightly as she sat, and that was new. It was cold in the room, and a thin layer of frost glazed the inside of the window. It certainly didn’t feel like home.

No matter. She opened her desk – it was one of the schoolroom sort, with a hinged lid – and looked at the neat nothingness within. Two pens. A bottle of ink. Some blank notepaper, its edges slightly curled from disuse. No mementoes, no treasured letters, no girlish diary – nothing personal at al . It was a clean slate that suited her job, and also her status as a lost person. A reformed housebreaker, rescued by Anne and Felicity. An orphan – perhaps.

James’s words to her, in their last conversation, stil echoed in her mind: You’re still wanted. If you were caught now, they’d hang you… But much worse than the words had been his expression.

Bafflement. Disapproval. Even, perhaps, a little repulsion. James was a purist when it came to tel ing the truth and the whole truth. And she couldn’t afford his high morals, even if she wanted to. It was a damned good thing, then, that there was nothing left between them. She could never explain to him this new and damning twist, if they were lovers.

She looked a while longer at the pens, the ink, the paper. Then she closed the desktop with a decisive click. Writing to ask James for a formal interview would only prolong the agony. It would also give him a chance to refuse. Much better simply to confront him and see what happened. She’d know from the look in his eyes whether or not she could trust him to keep her secret, one last time.

Mary walked to the door – it was only five steps –

and then paused. Returned to the wardrobe, and selected a reticule from within. Dug into it, fingertips tingling now, and brought out a bundle the size of a walnut. Unfolded the square of linen to reveal a smal pendant, green like a gooseberry and shaped like a tiny pear. This was al she had left of her father. The rest of his legacy – a letter, a sheaf of documents –

was lost, burned in a house fire just days after she’d discovered its existence. But she had the jade pendant.

Mary clasped the chain about her neck and tucked it securely inside her col ar, so that no trace of it was visible. It was dangerous, wearing personal keepsakes on the job. She’d never done so before.

But today, it seemed somehow essential. If her past was going to col ide with her present, she would at least be ready in this smal , perhaps vital, way.

Thus armed, she closed the wardrobe. Resisted the impulse to glance in a mirror – it would only confirm what a bedraggled mess she looked. And, walking out into Acacia Road, hailed a cab.

“Where to, miss?”

“Gordon Square.”

Six

46 Gordon Square, Bloomsbury