by Y. S. Lee
Blank expressions. Confusion. Then, gradually, the dawn of understanding. Affront. Horror. Denial. Here? At such an august institution?
James smiled and held up his hands to quell their sputtering. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I shall investigate the matter if and when we find it necessary.” He made a mental note to engage a rat catcher.
Mr Bentley stepped forward from the group, eyeing him warily. “Quite. Er. Hem. Is there anything else you wish to see in the vaults, Mr Easton?” The man’s long nose twitched, and James found it difficult not to stare at the mole that decorated its tip.
James knew a dismissal when he heard one. He was roughly one-third this man’s age, an upstart child in the eyes of the Court of Directors. He wondered again who’d chosen him for this task. Certainly not one of these fellows. He permitted himself to be escorted from the building, confirmed that the necessary plans and renderings would be delivered to his offices as promised and stood for a while in the late-afternoon drizzle of Threadneedle Street, contemplating the Bank’s unwelcoming façade.
As George had gloated, it was a perfect job: logistically complex, technically demanding and handsomely paid. Already, James was itching to begin. It was the sort of project that could become entirely absorbing, that would force him to stretch and learn daily. In fact, it was too perfect. Beneath his thrumming anticipation, James remained conscious of a steady, cold trickle of suspicion: was he being set up?
He shivered, and the hairs rose on the back of his neck. This Bank job had been too straightforwardly laid at his feet. To begin with, what sort of financial institution failed to force its suppliers to compete for business? He knew that the First Commissioner of Works, whom he’d favourably impressed during that business at St George’s Tower, had a great deal of influence within government. However, the Bank of England was probably outside his jurisdiction. George had suggested that the First Commissioner might be the brother-in-law of the Bank’s Governor, or somesuch, but was it sufficient to believe in such a high degree of coincidence?
Then again, coincidence seemed as likely in life as it did on stage. It had ensured that on three previous occasions, against all probability and logic, he’d met up with Mary Quinn and worked with her on jobs that redefined the irregular. He saw, each day, how small coincidences had immense consequences. It was well within the realm of the possible.
He simply had to persuade himself that such was the case this time.
Tuesday, 16 October, 7 p.m.
Along the border of Soho and Bloomsbury
He didn’t hear it coming.
One moment, James was walking home from his offices in Great George Street, enjoying the brief respite from rain and thinking about what Mary might be doing. The next moment, the ground rose up to meet him. His hands failed to break his fall and he slammed, with crushing force, into the foul, pebbly soil of a narrow alleyway. He kept his head up and thus managed to avoid smashing his face, but the impact was such that all he could do, for several long seconds, was try to breathe. What had happened? What was wrong with his arms? Why could he not move?
“Where’s your wallet?” snarled a voice in his ear.
Light dawned. “Breast pocket,” he said, and was relieved to find his tongue and teeth still intact.
His right shoulder was pinned to the ground – he guessed it was the thief’s knee – and an unknown hand fumbled to extract the billfold from his suit. James moved his legs experimentally and the voice hissed, “Keep still, or I’ll slit your throat.” The threat was accompanied by the flash of a long metal blade.
The same clumsy hand began to pat down his coat pockets. James’s arms were still pinioned behind him and he wondered what the thief would do next. Few thieves killed their marks; it only slowed their escape. And this one had the advantage of coming from behind so that James couldn’t identify him. However, logic might not be a street thief’s forte. How could James possibly presume that his life was worth anything at all to the man kneeling on his back? He could only wait. This ordeal would end, one way or another, in a minute or two.
In fact, it was quicker than that. An instant later, he heard the clatter of a wooden rattle. The thief stiffened, cursed, and the weight on James’s back suddenly lifted. There was a slight scrabbling sound, and footsteps skittered away down the alley. A moment later, heavier, slightly slower footsteps approached, slipping and crunching their way down the alley. “Sir! Can you speak, sir?”
He groaned and tried to roll over.
“Don’t move, sir! Keep still until I can see what damage that dastard has done.”
James ignored this advice and rolled onto his side, then heaved himself to a seated position. “It’s all right, Constable. Mainly scrapes and bruises, I suspect.”
The police constable frowned anxiously. “Well, I’m glad to hear it, sir. That was a nasty great knife he was carrying.”
“All’s well that ends well, isn’t that so?” James tried to stand and groaned. “I think this overcoat, however, is done for.”
The constable offered him a hand up. As James stood, the faint jingling of his pockets made them both pause. “You were quick, Constable. I still have my keys and coins and pocket watch.” This last would be cracked or broken from the impact, but James was glad to have it, nevertheless. It had been his father’s. He glanced around the alleyway. “But I don’t see my drawings.”
“Drawings, sir?”
“A roll of architectural plans. In a cardboard tube.”
The constable searched the alley, quickly and carefully. “Not here, sir. You certain you had them, until that cove tackled you?”
“Under my arm.”
The constable pursed his lips. “It’s a funny thing to take, that. I’ve never known a thief to take papers and leave a watch.”
“He may have lost his wits when he heard your rattle.” Or perhaps he’d wanted the drawings all along.
“I don’t suppose you saw his face at all, sir?”
“Afraid not. I shouldn’t think there’s much use in filing a report, Constable. All I know is that it was a man with a knife.”
The constable was reluctant to let him go, but short of arresting the victim, there was nothing he could do. “Shall I find you a cab, sir?”
James looked down ruefully. “I doubt a hansom would have me, in this condition. I’ll be all right walking.”
He was only ten minutes from home, but it took him longer than usual to get there. His ribs ached, he limped slightly and he was unable to shake the ghostly pressure of the thief’s knee in his back. More than all that, however, he was distracted. Actually, he wasn’t: he was furious. It wasn’t the loss of the actual drawings that troubled him most. They were of an older project, already completed, copies of which he’d wanted for his home office. The originals were safe at the office and one of his draftsmen could make a new set. It was a matter of what else the incident suggested.
Between the return of Maria Thorold and his new commission at the Bank of England, it would be hopelessly optimistic to think the robbery random or coincidental. No, it was connected. The difficulty was that he couldn’t know how. Had the thief aimed to snatch highly confidential plans of the most secure building in London? Or was the theft of the drawings merely a blind? Perhaps the assault was intended as a warning to James, to frighten him away from the Bank’s offer. Or, just possibly, the thief had been interrupted before he used his knife to send Mary a message written in blood.
James shook himself, mentally and physically. He was running away with himself, here. There was still no clear public evidence of any connection between him and Mary. He had to believe that, if he wasn’t to shake with fear every moment of every day. It was easier said than done, though, and he was still brooding when he stepped into the warm, bright hall of his home in Gordon Square.
“There you are, Jamie!” called a beloved but presently most unwelcome voice. George strode through the hall to greet him. As he approached, however, his expression changed from impatien
t welcome to indignant perplexity. “What on earth happened to you? You’re not injured, are you? Oh heavens, you need a doctor! Mrs Vine!” He bellowed these last words, and their housekeeper popped into view half a moment later.
Normal speech was trampled in their joint uproar. “Please!” James shouted, after a minute’s doomed effort. “I’m fine. I should like a wash, and then a peaceful dinner, if you please. I’ll tell you what happened afterwards,” he added.
“I say,” said a new voice from the first floor. “I do hope I’m not intruding. Ought I to come back another time?”
James stared up the flight of stairs. “Oh, it’s you, Alleyn,” he said after a moment. “Pay no attention to us. George likes a good bellow when I get home from the office.”
“Well, I couldn’t help but overhear his call for a physician. I’m at your service, as ever,” said Rufus Alleyn, in his unruffled way.
“You forgot, didn’t you?” muttered George. “Alleyn’s invited to dinner, and so are the Ringleys.”
James suppressed a sigh. The Ringleys – George’s fiancée, her parents and her two younger sisters – were far from his favourite people. They were pleasant, well-meaning and deadly dull. After ten minutes in their company, James was always tempted to climb out the drawing-room window. “Sorry, George, I did forget. Give me a minute to tidy up, and I’ll join you in the drawing room.”
“He’s your friend,” persisted George, under his breath. “I can see your forgetting about the Ringleys, but I thought you liked Rufus Alleyn.”
James flushed. Was he so very transparent in his preferences? “The Ringleys are excellent people,” he said. “I like them for your sake, George.”
Some of George’s obvious hurt faded, and he patted James’s shoulder gently. “Take your time,” he said. “I ordered dinner for eight. And Jamie…”
James turned to look at him.
“You would tell me if you were injured, wouldn’t you?”
James swallowed. “Of course I would, George.” He began to climb the stairs, making an effort not to limp. I just can’t tell you why.
An hour later, James sat in the dining room, a glass of wine at hand, wishing he was anywhere but here. It was a good house with comfortable furniture and cheerful company. Rufus Alleyn was a genuinely interesting chap, a physician who chose to work amongst the poor of London’s East End. The Ringleys were exerting themselves to talk of subjects other than hat trimmings and the weather. And Mrs Vine’s dinner menu was both delicious and bountiful. Yet the persistent ache in his ribs was a nagging reminder of the dangers just outside. James kept glancing at the clock on the mantel, wondering how rapidly he could shoo them all out of the house.
George had taken charge of the seating and placed James between the two eligible Ringley girls. Of course, thought James: Alleyn was invited to balance out the number of gentlemen, as well as the conversation. The Miss Ringleys were agreeable girls, comfortable, lace-trimmed bundles of dimples and ringlets, distinguishable only by their ribbons: Miss Polly’s dress was trimmed in pink, Miss Harriet’s in yellow. They were flatteringly, almost alarmingly, riveted by everything he said. James felt quite certain that if he observed that the night was dark, both would turn their fascinated gazes upon him and breathe, “Oh, how very true!” If only they felt free to speak their minds, he thought, this evening would be more enjoyable.
But enjoyable or not, it was a risk that made him feel stupid and culpable. He ought to have remembered the dinner party and insisted that George cancel it. He had been so miserably absorbed in his own difficulties – Mary, the Bank of England, the assault – that he’d not paused to consider the danger to which he was now exposing their guests. If Mrs Thorold was indeed on his trail, she might try to revenge herself by hurting those dear to him. George, the Ringleys and Rufus Alleyn were all part of his observable orbit this evening. He could only pray that they went unscathed, no thanks to him and his appalling selfishness.
Miss Polly Ringley broke his train of thought by angling her body towards him – close enough that he was suddenly, intensely aware of the rose perfume rising from her wine-warmed skin – and murmured, “Have you been to any interesting concerts or lectures in recent days, Mr Easton?”
“Why, yes,” he replied, after a brief hesitation. “This past weekend, I went to Leicester Square to see a Chinese pugilist.”
She was already smiling with expectation but his words caused her to blink and pause. “I beg your pardon, did you say ‘pugilist’?”
“I did.” To his left, he heard Miss Harriet squeak with anxiety. “It was most instructive. I’d no idea it was possible to spar so effectively with both hands and feet.”
The Miss Ringleys might have been lost for words, but Rufus Alleyn, sitting on Miss Polly’s other side, immediately leant forward. “I say, did you? I was called out on Saturday night to patch up a fellow who was unlucky enough to have challenged the Chinaman. Quite a job, it was. His right hand was so terribly smashed up that I was forced to—”
Miss Polly looked dismayed. “Mr Alleyn, I fear that my sister is of a delicate disposition…”
“I do beg your pardon, Miss Polly,” said Rufus, smoothly. “I’m afraid I allowed my professional enthusiasm to carry me away. I won’t go into the unsavoury details, but it was a long ordeal for my patient. Vicious little rat, that Chinese must have been. Or perhaps ‘rat’ is too small an animal. ‘Terrier’, maybe?”
James couldn’t suppress his irritation. “Why not simply ‘man’ or ‘fighter’?”
Rufus looked blank. “Well, they’re a smaller race…”
“They are still people. Certainly, they are more like us than they are like animals.”
“If you like,” said Rufus, clearly trying to humour James’s sudden ill temper. “I didn’t mean anything by it, dear fellow.”
James ground his teeth together. “I know.” He looked around the table at all the merry pink-and-white faces and thought briefly, bleakly, of Mary. She’d changed him more than he’d ever dreamed possible. He was no longer entirely at home with his peers, thanks to her. If he lost her now, what on earth would become of him?
Seven
Wednesday, 17 October
Newgate Street, London
On her third day as a strolling vendor, Mary found herself feeling oddly at home in Newgate Street. All evidence of Monday’s hangings had been cleared away, and only the looming wall of the jail reminded passers-by of the suffering within. Any shadow it cast over the street was mostly literal. The people of Newgate Street carried on their daily lives much like those in any other city street. There were the traders: butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers, and labourers of all descriptions who trudged through on their way to work. There were women aplenty, too: market-traders like Mary, sleepy-looking prostitutes at noon, the occasional apple-cheeked countrywoman, all agog at what the capital had to offer. And at each end of the street there was a coffee-stall where one could buy a mug of coffee and two very thin slices of bread and butter for a penny.
There were, of course, others: a one-legged beggar, rank and ragged, sucking comfort from a filthy bottle; an angry, chattering woman who stalked the street, lurching and screeching at anyone who looked in her direction; and the usual contingent of idling errand boys playing with whatever refuse approached the shape of a football.
And then there were the characters who embraced Newgate Street precisely because of the jail and the nearby Old Bailey. There was a gaunt man with long wisps of grey hair who paraded daily before the prison, crying at frequent intervals, “Repent ye and be saved!” There were the bookmakers, who materialized on hanging days to offer odds on everything to do with the execution: whether death would be instantaneous, how long the condemned might strangle before finally suffocating, what method Calcraft might use to speed his (or, occasionally, her) death, and even whether Calcraft might speak or sneeze as he performed his job. There was more variation of the food and drink vendors depending on the weather and, of
course, whether there was a crowd gathered for an execution. At those times, there was a distinctly festive feel in the air, and the food reflected it: hot mulled wine, roasted nuts and lardy cakes, rather than the daily fare of boiled puddings and jacket potatoes. After Monday, Mary had exchanged her gingerbread for apples, to reflect the altered atmosphere.
One of the regulars who caught Mary’s eye was a slightly threadbare but respectable-looking lady who stood by the prison gates handing out tracts. Each morning, she arrived a little after ten o’clock with her basket of improving literature and spent her days meekly offering it to all who passed through the prison doors. She seemed inured to angry rebuffs, cold shoulders and the general chaotic rudeness of humanity.
Unusual, thought Mary. A shabby-genteel widow – the lady wore mourning clothes – was an unlikely candidate for this particular type of religious obsession. Oh, she might earnestly desire the salvation of all souls. But to stand outside a jail, day by day, in highly variable weather? It seemed distinctly strange. Add to that the woman’s serenity in the face of screamed insults and obscene gestures, and Mary thought it possible that the widow was seeking something else entirely.
Could it really be this straightforward? The woman was tall, neither slender nor fat, and much of her head and face was conveniently concealed by a deep bonnet. She just might be Mrs Thorold. But truly, she might be almost any woman in London. What Mary required was a closer look.
Unfortunately, that was nearly impossible. A clear view of the widow’s face would require her to expose her own, and Mrs Thorold was not the sort of person one underestimated twice. As James had learned, she preferred murder to the benefit of the doubt. Furthermore, the widow hadn’t yet attempted to enter the building, so far as Mary could see. If she did, that might justify dramatic action. But for now, discretion remained the better part of valour.
