by Y. S. Lee
After an pause, Anne asked, “How did you and Mr Easton manage the arrest of Keenan? You can’t have had time to send for help.”
“That was a lucky accident,” said Mary slowly. “I ran into Jenkins on Sunday afternoon, after Reid went missing. I asked Jenkins to check whether Reid had disappeared of his own accord. He had: Reid paid for Jenkins’s lodgings, and on the evening he disappeared, settled with the landlord for the next two months. When Jenkins came to site, as I’d told him to, a couple of policemen patrolling the area saw a boy run into the building site after hours, gave chase, and ended up catching Keenan on his way down the tower stairs.”
“Quite ridiculously fortuitous,” smiled Felicity.
Mary smiled, for the first time since entering the Agency. “Mr Easton’s coachman was also on the scene and realized that things had become violent. He was ahead of Jenkins and the policemen by a storey or two, and I believe he was able to lend a hand.” She released a long, slow breath. “I think those are the most important points…” She was suddenly unspeakably weary. Her eyelids were leaden. Her muscles ached and burned. A thick patch of dry blood on her chin stretched and stung each time she spoke. And an angry red crease along her throat, like a noose, was a stinging reminder of those terrifying minutes she’d hung suspended from Keenan’s grip.
Anne nodded briskly. “There are a few loose ends, of course, but I expect we’ll be able to tie those up tomorrow before we meet with the Commissioner. By the by, his assessment of Harkness as ‘reliable’ couldn’t have been further off the mark.” She turned to Felicity. “D’you think the Commissioner was testing us?”
Felicity blinked, surprised at the question. “I – I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“Mmm.” Anne’s jaw took on an obstinate angle. “We’ll have to find out. There’s just too much we don’t know about him. About this case, overall.”
Felicity’s mouth was stubborn. “We’ll discuss this further, of course.” She turned back to Mary. “There’s just one more thing.”
Mary froze, half-way out of her chair. “Yes, Mrs Frame.”
“James Easton. What d’you intend to do about him?”
“I – I hadn’t – that is, I don’t yet know exactly what I’ll say.”
“But you intend to see him again.”
“I can’t just run away, or disappear.” The twin gazes of her employers seemed to bore through her. “I – I owe him a goodbye, at least.” She felt a painful, unexpected bump of disappointment as the words left her mouth. Was there another solution to their situation? Not likely. Not if she valued her work, indeed her life, here at the Agency.
“You’ll report to us the outcome of that interview.”
“Of course.”
Thirty-one
Wednesday, 13 July
Gordon Square, Bloomsbury
It was another sticky, soupy, stifling afternoon. The thunderstorm threatening the city all week had yet to materialize, and even by English standards, people talked about the weather a great deal at the moment. As her hansom cab turned into Gordon Square, Mary saw and felt the thick layer of straw coating the cobblestones, damping the sound of hooves along its length. The straw was laid down for invalids, to help them rest, and she hoped it wasn’t for James’s benefit. After all, he hadn’t been too ill to write her a note.
The patrician housekeeper opened the door and looked down the length of her nose at Mary. “Miss Quinn. Do come in.”
She was shown up to the drawing room where a stoutish, balding man greeted her with polite forbearance. “Miss Quinn. It’s been quite some time since we met.” The edge in his voice suggested, unmistakably, that it was a pity they were meeting now.
“Mr Easton,” she said politely. “How do you do.”
The younger Mr Easton reclined meekly on a sofa, draped to the chest in blankets. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I’d stand, but George would kill me.”
Mary smiled and murmured something polite. Apparently, all the formalities were to be observed today. She hadn’t been invited to remove her hat and gloves, so this meant a short call: fifteen minutes at most. It was for the best. A long, cosy visit would only prolong the pain of saying goodbye.
“Tea?” asked George.
“Thank you, no.”
“Yes, she will,” said James with sudden vigour. “And take off your hat, Mary – and George, do go away, there’s a good chaperon.”
George ruffled up, just like a rooster. “It’s for Miss Quinn’s own good, Jamie, and—”
“Oh, rubbish. Look at me on my sick-bed: I’m hardly capable of ravishing her. And don’t call me Jamie!”
After some spluttering, George retreated with the proviso that the drawing-room door remain open.
That accomplished, James offered Mary his most charming grin. “Come and sit beside me?”
She grinned. “You’re a horrendous brat.”
“George is a tyrant. The only way he’d agree to a visit was if I lay on this sofa while he supervised our conversation.”
She laid her gloves on a side table. “What’s so very urgent that it can’t wait until you’re well?”
“I wanted to see you.”
She flushed with pleasure. Swallowed regret.
“And I want all the news. George won’t tell me a thing, for fear of overexciting me.”
“Well…” It had been such a long, intense few days since the tragedy at St Stephen’s Tower. “Big Ben rang for the first time on Monday. It sounds quite good, although the quarter-bells aren’t going yet.”
He gave her a look. “Real news, if you please. I’m not your maiden aunt.”
She blushed hotly and said the first thing that came into her mind. “Keenan’s been charged with murder. Although I expect you know that, as witness for the prosecution.”
He nodded.
“They found Reid in Saffron Walden, newly married to Jane Wick. He and Keenan had agreed that if Reid left town with the Wick family and kept quiet, Keenan would leave them alone. I suppose that’s not possible, now – the Crown will certainly want him to give evidence.”
James nodded. “He ought to be all right. The evidence against Keenan is strong.”
“Reid’s worried about his own part in the thefts, obviously, but he should receive some clemency for those. He was very upset about the blackmail. That caused the initial friction between the three brickies: Reid maintaining that it was wrong, and Keenan and Wick pressing him to keep silent.”
“But profiting from stolen goods is all right?”
Mary wrinkled her nose. “There’s a large moral difference. And from Reid’s perspective, the thefts didn’t directly harm anybody. They represented only a small percentage of the site budget, yet seemed a small fortune in comparison with his wages. He also tried to justify the theft of the money by doing right with it: he supported an injured errand boy and his sisters, and subsidized the Wick family, too.
“We were right, you know, about the bruises he had on Monday: he and Wick had fought about Jane. She’d just told Reid she was pregnant again, and he was furious. Scolded Wick for ‘wearing her out with babies’, and said any decent man would leave her alone for a bit.”
James smiled. “You were right and I was wrong. I thought he was a drunken hothead, remember?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Admitting imperfections, now? You really are unwell.”
“I’m the most generous of souls.”
“Well, since you’re feigning generosity, I want to ask you about Jenkins – the lad who led the police to the tower.”
“What about him?”
“He’s clever. Poor. The eldest of several, both parents dead. I don’t suppose…”
James nodded. “Send him round to our offices. I’m sure George will find something for him to do until I’m back, though it may be only sharpening pencils.”
Mary grinned. “Count them first, mind. He’s used to skimming off the top.”
He snorted. “You do keep strange
company.”
There was a pause. Mary fidgeted with her gloves. How to bring up the real question she wanted to ask him…? It seemed brutal, digging into matters that were so clearly sensitive ones. But she had to know – if only to understand how James might be feeling.
“What is it?”
There was no sense in hinting. Not with James. “What are the consequences for Easton Engineering, now that you know Harkness’s letter was forged?”
“You mean, did he topple our reputation alongside his?” He made a face. “You’d think so, but oddly enough, no. I’m still not certain how.” He paused. “Sometimes I think Harkness chose me because I’m young, and hoped I’d be malleable. Or perhaps he thought me inexperienced and unlikely to know good practice from bad. Or – good God, perhaps he really did want me to meet the First Commissioner, even in those circumstances. One last good deed, or something like that. I’ll never truly know. But the result is that I have indeed met the First Commissioner. Whether that will lead to anything, I couldn’t begin to predict.”
“And – you feel all right about that?”
“Of course not. I’ve played at politics now, dirtied my hands, and it went disastrously. I regret nearly every minute I spent on that accursed site.” His tone was so vehement that Mary recoiled. He caught her eye and half-smiled. “Except, of course, those I spent with you.” She made a sound of protest and he laughed. “It’s true, it’s true. It sounds trite, and pat, and appallingly clichéd, I know. But I mean it. Meeting you again is the one good thing to have come of the entire affair.”
Fear and something else – a wild sort of joy – warred within her. This was dangerous territory. If she didn’t speak soon, she never would. “I – there’s something I need to tell you.”
His gaze sharpened at the new guardedness in her tone. “What’s that?”
Twice, she opened her mouth to begin.
Twice, she closed it again.
Finally, she said simply, “Who do you think I am?”
There was a pause. Then, slowly, “When I first met you, I thought you were a rich man’s mistress. Then I learned you worked as a lady’s companion. Now you tell me you’re an aspiring journalist.” His tone was wary. “Why d’you ask? Are there further developments?”
“Not exactly. More like … past omissions.”
His expression was still, shuttered. “Go on.”
“I – I’m a criminal. A former thief.”
Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. His eyes flashed to hers, wide and startled. “What?”
“When I was twelve, I was tried and found guilty of housebreaking.”
“That carries a death sentence.”
“Yes. I escaped.”
“But you’re still wanted. If you were caught now, they’d hang you.”
“Yes.”
“You must be living under an assumed name.”
“Yes.”
He stared at her for a long minute, a complex blend of emotions struggling in his eyes.
Disbelief.
Affection, still.
And – yes – revulsion.
Here, at last, was the answer she needed in order to go on her way.
Finally, he said in a low, gruff tone, “Why are you telling me all this?”
“I wanted you to know the truth.” The little jade pendant nestled against her collarbone was a constant reminder of her other truth. The one she could never tell anyone.
“But why?”
“Because…” And this was the hardest part – one of the most difficult things she’d said in years. “Because I didn’t want you to care for me – for someone – about whom you knew so little.” She paused. “You live by such clear, unambiguous principles. You condemned Harkness for stealing, when he should instead have reined in his family’s greed. You despise yourself for condescending to play politics with Harkness and the Commissioner. What I’ve just told you must change your feelings towards me.”
He couldn’t meet her gaze.
After several minutes, she said quietly, “Isn’t that right?”
Again, no reply. Not even a look.
She took her gloves from the side table and stood, the swish of her skirts loud against the sofa leg. “I’ve enjoyed your friendship. Thank you for that.” She longed to say more, to thank him for something greater than friendship. But she couldn’t trust her voice.
When he finally spoke, she was already at the drawing-room door. “Why tell me now?”
She looked back at him, into dark, wounded eyes. “You’d rather I’d not told you at all?”
“Of course not.” Suddenly angry. “But your life is in my hands, now. Aren’t you afraid I’ll go to the police?”
“My life was in your hands on Sunday night. Nothing’s changed since then, James. Not for me.”
Thirty-two
She walked roughly westwards. Walked carelessly and blindly, not minding which road she was taking, and oblivious of the sights and smells about her. From time to time, when the shimmering wall of tears threatened to blind her entirely, she swiped at them with a glove. She needed a handkerchief. She never seemed to have a bloody handkerchief when she needed one.
Some minutes later, she realized somebody was keeping pace with her. A fair-haired man – tobacco-brown suit, rather rumpled – to her right, proffering a large square of clean linen. She stopped and gulped. “Octavius Jones.”
He made an elaborate bow. “Miss Quinn. May I be of service? It does so trouble me to see a lady in distress.”
“Does it? You must see rather a lot of them, in your line of work.”
“Your line, too – isn’t it?” he asked, alert eyes belying his casual tone.
“Perhaps I’m not suited to it.”
“Surely you’re not booing your eyes out because you’ve lost your post as Mark Quinn.”
“No,” she admitted, resuming her walk. “I’m not.”
“Care to tell me about it?”
“Certainly not. I notice you completely broke your word to me about publication.” The story of Harkness’s inglorious end had been the main feature – eight pages of “exclusive” coverage! – in Monday’s Eye.
“I should hardly say so,” he protested. “The circumstances were so different. You didn’t tell me that Harkness was going to be killed that night.”
“No.” Mary slowed, thinking about James again. She’d not asked how he was managing after Harkness’s grisly death. He must be troubled – and further grieved to know that Harkness’s suspected failings were all true, after all.
“Cheer up,” said Jones, chucking her under the chin with a cheeky smile. “Whoever he is, he’s not worth it.”
“Don’t touch me,” snapped Mary. “You haven’t the faintest idea why I’m upset.”
“Oh, it’s almost always the same thing: affair of the heart, dreadful misunderstanding, things will never be the same again,” he said glibly. “What you’ve got to do is look ahead. Think of what’s to come!”
She blew her nose. Impossible to feel miserable in the face of such relentless obnoxiousness.
“That’s it. You’re a clever, energetic young woman. Lots to see and do. Well, this is where I turn off.” He indicated the street. “So long for now, Miss Mark Quinn. I’ll be seeing you again.”
“I doubt it.”
He swung back, offering his most charming, lopsided grin. “Oh, I don’t. Not for a minute.”
He vanished into the crowd. It was a trick that made her wonder whether he was merely a gutter-press journalist, as he claimed. Surely he was too sharp, too knowing? She would make a point of finding out, if they met again. Not that they would, despite his smug certainty. She detested bright-eyed know-it-alls who only talked and never listened, and Jones was no exception.
Energized by irritation, she resumed her usual brisk pace. As she came towards Regent’s Park, a drop of rain struck her shoulder. Another splashed the brim of her hat. And then a proper light rain began, sending pedes
trians scattering and costermongers to pack up their wares. She hadn’t an umbrella with her. She didn’t care. She began to walk again, returning to St John’s Wood by the quickest route. It wasn’t the storm everyone was calling for, but that would come, too.
In its own time.
Y. S. Lee was born in Singapore and raised in Vancouver and Toronto. In 2004, Ying completed her PhD in Victorian literature and culture. This research, combined with her time living in London, inspired her to write a story about a top-secret women’s detective agency – the starting point for the Mary Quinn novels.
Ying now lives in Kingston, Ontario, with her husband and son. Please visit her at:
www.yslee.com
To S, who arrived halfway through this novel
And to N, who was here the whole time
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.
First published in Great Britain 2010 by Walker Books Ltd 87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ
Text © 2010 by Y. S. Lee
Cover design by Walker Books
Image of Houses of Parliament © 2010 Ray Roberts/Photolibrary
The right of Y. S. Lee to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
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