Traitor and the Tunnel (9 page)

A delicate rattling of china reminded her of the tray in her hands, and it took a long moment for her to calm herself sufficiently to enter the room and set the tray before Prince Bertie. “Your Highness.” She curtseyed.

His head swivel ed. He looked at her with sightless eyes.

“Do you require anything else, sir?”

“N-no. You may go.”

“Very good, sir.” She curtseyed again and began her retreat.

She was half-way across the vast rug when he cleared his throat. “Er – Her Majesty wil not be taking tea this afternoon.”

“Very good, sir.” She hesitated. “Do you expect Mrs Dalrymple?”

A morose shrug was his only answer.

In that case… “Shal I pour you a cup of tea, sir?”

“Yes, do.”

“Would you like a butterfly bun, sir?” It was the nursery choice: the Prince of Wales didn’t seem in the mood to appreciate the pungency of a fruit-cake.

“Yes.”

She chose the fattest, creamiest cake, so thickly dredged with icing sugar that it gave off a puff of white powder as she set it gently on a plate. “Is there anything else you require, sir?”

“N-no. I mean, yes. I mean, I don’t know!” The Prince let the plate clatter onto a side table and buried his face in his hands. He made a curious, treble sound – a kind of animal shriek – and Mary realized, with wonder, that he was sobbing. His shoulders quaked. He shook and heaved and gasped for breath. But when Mary caught a glimpse of his scarlet face, his eyes were dry.

“There, there,” said Mary with caution. She suspected he’d not take kindly to a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, or the offer of a handkerchief.

But she didn’t want to summon help. He might yet tel her something meaningful.

She watched the Prince a few minutes longer. His was a hysterical sort of sobbing – theatrical, even.

Final y, when it began to subside, Mary knelt beside his chair. “It’s not an easy life, yours,” she said quietly.

“Nooooo,” he agreed, with a sort of wail.

In other circumstances, it would have been difficult not to laugh. Yet there was so much at stake just now. Every word of Bertie’s was precious. “Nobody real y understands what it’s like.”

His eyes wel ed up with tears in earnest, now, and he began to blub again. “I – I’m so miserable … and so alone.”

“Because there’s nobody in your family like you,”

said Mary. “Nobody with your duties and people’s expectations of you.” She hated the words, even as they left her mouth. The last thing she needed to encourage was the Prince’s sense of injured entitlement. Yet it was, she felt certain, the swiftest way into his confidence.

He looked at her for a moment, amazed. “How did you know that? How can a servant girl like you understand so much?”

Because

self-absorbed

man-children

are

common as weeds, thought Mary. But she said, “I don’t know, sir. I only guessed.”

“I’m entirely alone, for al I’ve equerries and friends and my parents; I’m more alone than the poorest orphan ever born.” It was fortunate that the Prince of Wales couldn’t see the twist of Mary’s mouth as he uttered this. “And I’m even more alone now, because of what happened on Saturday night, and I can’t even cry for my friend who’s dead. I can cry for myself, al right; that’s easy. But before, when I was thinking of him, I tried to make myself cry and I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. What’s wrong with me?”

She poured a fresh cup of tea.

He gulped it down in one. “Eh? You haven’t answered me that one.”

“I’d not presume to know, sir.”

He stared at her through swol en, bloodshot eyes.

“What’s your name?”

Mary bit her lip, sudden misgivings making her stomach rol over queasily. What was she thinking, addressing the Prince of Wales directly? Servants were sacked for less every day. “Quinn, sir,” she said very quietly.

“I meant your other name.”

“It’s Mary, sir.”

“Mary.” He considered her, real y looking at her now. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“I began in January, sir.”

“Clever.” He looked her up and down. “Nice-looking, too.”

“Th-thank you, sir.” She edged very slightly backwards. This was not going as she’d hoped.

She’d been mad trying to gain the Prince’s confidence.

Just as he leaned forward to speak again, the door flew open to admit Honoria Dalrymple. Prince Bertie snapped back in his chair, as though on a puppeteer’s string.

“Your Highness,” said Mrs Dalrymple, making a light, graceful curtsey. “Her Majesty has told me al about your terrifying ordeal, of course. I am so very relieved to see you unharmed.”

“Thank you,” he said in a slightly strangled voice.

He flicked a reluctant glance at Mary, which Mrs Dalrymple promptly interpreted.

“Enough dil y-dal ying, Quinn,” she said, making a shooing gesture with her fingers. “I’l pour for His Highness. You must have a great deal of work awaiting you.” Her tone made it clear that she thought Mary the laziest of malingerers.

“Yes, ma’am.” Mary retreated with a sense of relief. She’d never expected to be glad to see Mrs Dalrymple, but the lady-in-waiting’s entrance couldn’t have been better timed. Mary closed the door behind her with an audible click, then retreated round the corner. She hadn’t long to wait: in a few seconds’ time, the door opened again and she heard Honoria Dalrymple sniff. This might have expressed either disappointment (that she’d not caught Mary eavesdropping) or satisfaction (that she was alone with the Prince). Whichever the case, the door banged shut again. Mary waited three minutes, then very quietly edged towards it.

“…such a nightmare!” tril ed Mrs Dalrymple. “You must be more careful of your safety; you don’t know how your nation loves you, my dear sir.”

“I – I shal try,” said His Highness. He sounded rather bewildered.

“Why, whenever I hear your name mentioned, it’s with respect and eager anticipation. Your subjects –

your future subjects, I mean – bear you such uncommon goodwil and affection.”

Mary listened with bemusement. What did the lady-in-waiting hope to accomplish with such flattery?

“You are too kind.” But the Prince’s tone was guarded, rather than gratified.

“Another cup of tea?” persisted Mrs Dalrymple.

“Or perhaps a cream cake?”

“Thank you, no.”

“I don’t doubt that trauma has quite dampened your appetite. But you must keep up your strength, dear Prince. Your country needs you.”

“I’ve had sufficient,” said Prince Bertie, sounding a trifle sulky now. Apparently, even spoilt young princelings could tire of gushing concern.

There came a brief pause. When Mrs Dalrymple spoke again, her pitch was considerably less shril .

“Wil not Her Majesty the Queen be joining us today?

I thought she—”

Her sentence was interrupted by the sound of a teacup smashing – and more: “That’s it! I’ve had enough! Why can’t everybody just leave me alone?!”

Mary whirled back round the corner. Half a moment later, the door banged open and the tearful Prince charged down the hal . Within the drawing room, there was only silence.

Mary retreated below stairs, there to await her summons. The Queen’s position was transparent enough. So was the Prince’s. But what was Honoria Dalrymple playing at?

Nine

Evening prayers were always brief – below stairs, at least. The domestic staff, weary from the day’s labour, general y wanted nothing more than to retire for the night once the late-night supper had been served above stairs, the royal family settled quietly for the evening, and the kitchens swept and scoured.

Amy looped her arm through Mary’s as they climbed the narrow service stairs to their attic quarters, her giddy chatter a high note amidst the otherwise sighing, grumbling throng.

Mary listened with patience. It was a genuine puzzle as to what Octavius Jones wanted with giddy, gossipy Amy. There was the al -too-obvious, of course, but he needn’t have chosen Amy for that; a woman in service was difficult to visit and had little free time. No, he must be after information – and it was Amy’s place of employment that captured his real interest. But about what?

Of course! She was a bloody fool not to have seen it immediately. Octavius Jones was entirely capable of bending a girl like Amy to his wil . And he’d chosen wel : not only was Amy mal eable and infatuated, but she was the maid who cleaned and dusted the public drawing rooms. Nobody was better poised to steal those ornaments than she. It was simple enough for Amy to carry a snuffbox or a smal china figurine in her handbag when she went out to meet Jones. And with Amy running al the risks, Jones would likely be safe even if she was caught. He might even be able to count on her loyal silence under questioning.

This theory led to new possibilities and new motives for the thefts. Mary had always assumed that common avarice was the reason: the items stolen were of good quality, although far from the finest examples of their kind. They would fetch a decent price without cal ing undue attention to their provenance, and Mary had always assumed they’d long since been sold to unscrupulous antiques dealers. But what if the Palace thief was no ordinary thief? What if he was calculating and subtle, and interested in far more than a smal profit on a couple of Dresden shepherdesses? If Octavius Jones was the mastermind behind the thefts, there had to be something else to it. The question was, what was he planning?

She could imagine a sort of shril exposé about the laxity of Palace security. Or perhaps on the corruption of antiques dealers – no, too rarefied for readers of the Eye. A scandal-mongering piece about the obscene riches amidst which the royal family lived? No, too socialist-republican for Jones.

Or perhaps he was after the questionable characters of the royal domestics – decrying the corruption below stairs. That would be a hard blow for Amy, though; was that perhaps too unconscionable a betrayal even for Jones? It would mean significant personal risk, if Amy took umbrage. No. It had to be Palace security, then, or something similar.

“It’s a delicate thing to ask,” Amy was saying, already blushing in anticipation.

Mary returned to the present with a jolt. “You can ask anything of me,” she said.

They had gone into their shared room, now, and Amy closed the door firmly behind her. “Wel , Mrs Shaw wouldn’t give me leave to go out tomorrow night,” she said, rol ing her eyes. “The old ninny. Said she reckoned I could go and visit my mother on Sunday afternoon, same as always.”

Mary grinned. “Do you visit your mother of a Sunday?”

Amy shot her an indignant look. “Course I do. I just make it quick, like, so’s to leave time to meet Mr Jones. Anyway, there it is: I’ve an appointment to see my gentleman friend, and I ain’t al owed out.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Maybe. But I thought again, and perhaps it’s for the best. And that’s what I wanted to ask you…” To Mary’s surprise, Amy blushed again, deeply. “Would you – d’you think I could – wel …”

“Do you want me to help you slip out?”

Amy shook her head and went from pink to scarlet. “To help Mr Jones sneak in. And to let us have the room for a bit.” Mary’s face must have reflected her surprise, for Amy rushed on. “I been thinking, right, and this is the thing to do. He’s a lovely man, is my Tavvy, but he’s a bit on the shy side.” Mary tried not to show her utter disbelief at this description. “And I reckon a little encouragement is just what he needs.”

Mary shook out her apron, inspecting it for dirt.

“Encouragement to what?”

It was Amy’s turn to stare. “Why, to pop the question, you goose! What else?”

Instantly, Mary’s thoughts turned to the thefts. “Was this Mr Jones’s idea?”

“Of course not!” Something in Amy seemed to snap. “Ain’t you been listening? It’s my idea, you dunce, because Tavvy’s so blooming slow. If I had permission to go out tomorrow, he’d take me to stupid Astley’s to see them stupid horses again, or for another freezing-cold walk in the freezing-cold park, and al I’d get for my troubles’d be a cuddle in a corner and a dress that’s al over mud. No, ta – not again.”

Mary’s lips twitched. She had, indeed, been sluggish on the uptake – nearly as slow as Jones.

“So by giving you a bit of privacy…”

Amy smirked, al embarrassment evaporated.

“Right you are. A little encouragement and a nice warm bed, and I’l be the future Mrs Octavius Jones by Wednesday morning.”

“Sounds as if he hasn’t a chance.”

“Not even half.” Amy wrestled mightily with her corset and pul ed it off with a groan of relief. “Oh, that’s heaven, that is.” She waved the giant pink lobster’s tail at Mary with a disgusted air. “He ain’t never even seen this, y’know; that’s how behindhand the man is.”

Mary grinned. “I’d never have guessed.” Amy’s plan was far from original but her brazenness was endearing.

Amy rubbed soap onto a flannel and washed herself with brisk, decisive gestures that spoke of her determination. “I once suggested – you know, coy, like – going to his place, but he says his landlady’s a right old sourpuss, and he daren’t cross her. We’l move into a proper house, of course, once we’re married.”