by Y. S. Lee
“Is it so impossible?” demanded Felicity.
“It is certainly far-fetched. Fantastical, even.”
“So were her previous crimes: she organized an international pirate crew that attacked her husband’s merchant vessels. She must also have extensive black-market contacts, since she was able to dispose of valuable Eastern artefacts on a regular basis. And she is ruthless. Although I need hardly remind you of that.”
“No,” agreed James, an involuntary shiver travelling the length of his spine. Mrs Thorold had been responsible for the deaths of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of Lascar sailors in her piracy schemes. She had murdered with her own hands an elderly Chinese man and a child of ten. She had then attempted to kill James in an arson attempt that failed only because the building was too damp to burn.
Felicity broke the silence. “Are you still so sceptical of my theory?”
“It remains a theory,” said James. “If we accept the possibility that she has been planning this theft for some time, do you think she was instrumental in the choice of Easton Engineering?”
“Quite possibly,” said Felicity. She sounded entirely unconcerned. “It carries with it a certain sense of poetic justice.”
James frowned. “What evidence have you that any part of this theory is likely? What other potential thefts or crimes have you considered? Or, perhaps, where else need you search?”
“This is where my indiscretion ends,” said Felicity. “I can assure you that I am diligently casting a broad net, but I shall not attempt to prove it to you. Think of the matter this way, instead: if I am grasping at straws and proposing wildly unlikely schemes, you are safer than you know. The expansion of the vaults will go ahead, Mrs Thorold will never turn up and you’ll be handsomely rewarded for a straightforward contract.” She leaned forward and fixed James with a look. “But would foresight change your course of action? If you knew me to be correct, would you then decline the contract?”
“So you are merely informing me of a theoretical possibility? I appreciate your concern, Mrs Frame, and shall certainly be alert to the potential reappearance of Mrs Thorold. Should I recognize her, I shall report the matter to Scotland Yard immediately.” James paused, gazing steadily across the desk. “Or is there something else you require of me?”
A small smile. “You are not slow, Mr Easton. I should like you to report any sightings – whether suspected or certain – to me, as well.”
It was what he’d expected to hear, and yet he was nonplussed. “Just like that?”
“Would you believe any explanation I offered?”
“Try me.”
“Yours is not the only detective agency in London with an active female partner, Mr Easton.” Felicity paused. “Surprised?”
“Not nearly as surprised as I might have been, before I met Miss Quinn.”
She nodded. “I have been connected to the Thorold case since its inception over two years ago. It would be immensely satisfying for my organization now to bring this case to a conclusion. To that end, I should like to offer you a retainer for any services you may be able to provide.”
James frowned. “You sound as though you’re in competition with Scotland Yard.”
“Hardly; we act as independent assistants to the Metropolitan Police. Many hands make light work, and all that.”
“And you were empowered by the police to act in the first Thorold case?”
“Certainly.”
“What a fascinating insight into the work of the Yard.” James glanced out of the window behind him, then back to Felicity. “What is your relationship to Miss Quinn?”
“That is a question you must ask Miss Quinn yourself,” said Felicity. “Mysterious as that sounds, I assure you that she and I remain on good terms.
Then why have I never heard of you? wondered James. The woman’s story was coherent enough, if rather far-fetched. She was intelligent, confident and charismatic, which made her seem all the more dangerous in his eyes. But there was a problem somewhere… “I notice that you allowed Miss Quinn to observe you outside Newgate Prison,” he said slowly, “but did not reveal yourself to her. Wouldn’t that have been useful, if you are looking for many hands to lighten your work?”
“And now you come to the heart of the matter,” said Felicity, sweetly. “Miss Quinn is a talented observer, and her services were swiftly requested by another party connected to this case. Had I been able to meet with her quickly enough, I should have invited you both to join with my efforts. Unfortunately, I could not, and as a result am asking you alone instead.”
James blinked. “How many independent agencies are working on this case, apart from the Police?”
“Two.”
“And you do not collaborate? Whyever not?”
“That would require a long explanation, and we do not have time. I am well aware of how curious my request may sound, Mr Easton. But in the end, I am not asking you for much: only to continue with your usual work and to inform me if and when you encounter Mrs Thorold.”
“I dislike hasty decisions,” he replied. “And in this case, I must first consult with Miss Quinn. I am not at liberty to accept your offer at this moment, even if I were so inclined.”
Felicity tilted her head. “Are you and Miss Quinn so very scrupulously united on all fronts?”
He bristled at her tone. “We are equal partners in the firm.”
“I take it, then, that Miss Quinn would never take a third party into her confidence without first speaking with you?”
James narrowed his eyes. “What are you insinuating, Mrs Frame?”
“You ought to know, Mr Easton, if your precious partnership is so pure and sturdy.” She examined the back of her black gloves for a long second, before fixing him again with that green gaze. “I speak, of course, of Miss Quinn’s sudden intimacy with the young Chinese man.”
James swallowed hard.
“But you knew all about that,” she said, in velvety tones. “Did you not?”
James remained silent. He composed his expression to be calm and indifferent. Judging from the gleam in Felicity’s eyes, it was imperfectly so.
She rose elegantly, withdrew a calling card from her reticule and placed it neatly on his desk. “You may contact me at this address at any time of day or night.”
James stood mechanically, half a moment too late for perfect politesse.
“Good-day, Mr Easton. I look forward to hearing from you.”
Thursday, 18 October
Burton Crescent, Bloomsbury
When Mary’s bell rang at two minutes before eight in the morning, it was hours too early for a social call. Not that she would expect her cousin Lang to know that. Mary, at least, was still dizzied by their unexpected reunion and needed time to adjust to the news. As a result, she descended the stairs with some trepidation. When she opened the door, she blinked in mild surprise to find not Lang, but Anne Treleaven, on her doorstep.
Anne sat down in the drawing room, kept her hat and gloves on and came straight to the point. “Mr Thorold died at midnight; Angelica received word from the jail first thing this morning. She is there now. Mrs Thorold now has no reason to enter Newgate, and you may discontinue your assignment.”
Mary nodded, her thoughts leaping irresistibly to James. She couldn’t wait to tell him. Surely she could do so before Saturday, in some discreet way? Two and a half days seemed an interminable wait.
But Anne was still speaking. “It remains possible that Mrs Thorold is in town and simply didn’t get to her husband in time. I have taken the precaution of having Angelica followed until her return to Vienna in case her mother decides, for some reason, to make contact. However, I am here to ask if you would accompany Angelica about town for these few days, help her with making arrangements and generally smooth her way. She needs a friend and you are the obvious choice.”
“A friend? Or a confidante?”
A hint of a smile. “The two roles go together, do they not? Your thinking is clear, Mary: Angeli
ca is nearly alone in the world. After an event such as this, she is likely to talk of her family and her mother, and we need more information – much more – if we are to locate Mrs Thorold. I propose having you stay at the Academy, sharing a bedroom with Angelica. That is easy to explain: we are genuinely short of space, and the room has two beds. Any clues you are able to glean would be most gratefully received.”
So she would be on duty, day and night. “Have you any idea where Mrs Thorold might be right now?”
Anne shook her head, her lips compressed in a clear sign of frustration. “No, and that is why simply shadowing Angelica is no longer sufficient. The timing is ominous: if something is going to occur, it will be soon.”
Mary thought a moment. “How is Angelica taking the news?”
“Rather well. I must say, she’s grown up enormously since I last saw her.”
“She would be the first to acknowledge that there was much growing up to be done.”
“Quite. Now, I know I’ve burst in rather abruptly with this proposal, Mary, but I imagine you rather expected it. I must ask you now: are you willing to accept this assignment, knowing that your personal risk is constantly heightened in Angelica’s presence, and knowing also that the situation may bring you into direct contact with Mrs Thorold? I need hardly advise you that it is considerably more dangerous than keeping watch from afar.”
No, there was no need to tell her that. “I accept, on one condition.”
Anne was visibly surprised. “What is that?”
“The moment you receive definitive information about Mrs Thorold’s location, you must inform James Easton. Directly, please. Not via Scotland Yard.”
Anne nodded briskly. “Certainly. Have you any further questions at this point?”
Mary rose. “Yes, but I imagine you will answer them in the carriage. I am to come with you immediately, am I not?”
Anne smiled. “If you please. And do pack a small trunk. You’ll be staying a few nights.”
Ten
Mary had her doubts about the extremely convenient timing of her reappearance in Acacia Road. However, Angelica Thorold appeared to accept Mary’s explanation at face value: her employers had accused her of stealing a necklace and dismissed her without a character. It was a perfectly ordinary story, the sort of thing that happened dozens of times a day, all over London.
“What will you do now?” asked Angelica, sympathetically. They were sitting down over buttered rolls, cold ham and boiled eggs: a late breakfast for Angelica, who had just returned from Newgate.
Mary shrugged. “Look for a new place, I suppose. I’m luckier than most in being able to stay here in the meantime.”
“Of course,” said Angelica, but there was a small frown between her eyebrows as she toyed with her food. “However, there’s not a great deal to look forward to, is there? Another wealthy family, who may or may not treat you well? Who may accuse you of worse, or have unreasonable expectations? And you can’t be well paid. Shall you ever be able to save enough money to support yourself, if you cannot find work for a spell? Or once you are too old to work? And what of your life? What do you want to do?”
Mary was divided between amusement and suspicion. Was Angelica on her way to becoming a full-fledged member of the Academy, or was this merely a polite way of expressing her suspicions? “It’s all very well to ask those questions,” she said, with quiet dignity. “You have a music scholarship in Vienna and the chance to win fame and fortune through art. You are blessed with talent, money and education, Angelica, and I am glad of it for your sake.
“But my life will be entirely different. The life that I lead now, poor and restricted though it seems to you, is far more worth living than the one Fate allotted me. I shall do my best with it, because it’s what I was granted, and because I know it is more than I deserve.” Mary had begun this defence as part of her role, but she meant what she said. Although the specific details were a sham, the sentiment was entirely truthful.
Angelica flushed crimson. “I beg your pardon,” she said quietly. “I was thoughtless.”
Mary squeezed her hand. “We are all thoughtless, at times. And here I am scolding you, when I ought to ask how you are faring.”
Angelica sighed. “I feel … insensible. Numb. Even when I saw his body this morning, I could not persuade myself that my father was truly gone. It’s as though I’m waiting for somebody to confirm it.” She made a helpless gesture. “Perhaps I’d believe the news if I heard it from my mother. She was often ill, and thought herself frail, but she was the real head of our household. Perhaps I can’t believe that my father would do something so bold as to die without her consent.”
Was this permission to ask after Mrs Thorold? It seemed too open, too sudden an invitation. Best to let it pass and try again later, when she had a clearer idea of Angelica’s frame of mind. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Mary asked, “Is there anything I can help you to organize, since I’m here? Goodness knows, I’ve time to spare.”
Angelica thought for a moment. “The funeral’s tomorrow.”
Mary couldn’t contain her surprise. “So quickly? And you’ve arranged everything?” Burial plots in London were rare and difficult to come by. Perhaps Mr Thorold would be buried in a rural graveyard; it wasn’t as though Angelica would be able to visit him frequently.
“Oh heavens, it wasn’t me. Miss Treleaven’s been endlessly helpful; she’s so extremely kind and knowledgeable, isn’t she? She knew just the person to contact, and it so happened that a family had booked a funeral and then cancelled it. I don’t know what kind of people do that, do you? Perhaps they were only hoping the person was dead, and are now very disappointed?” Angelica gave a tiny giggle. “In any case, we got the lot – carriage, horses, casket and six feet of ground – at a price Miss Treleaven says is a fraction of what it ordinarily costs.” She giggled again. “Papa would be ever so pleased; he loved a good bargain.”
Mary had heard stranger things. “It’s very soon,” she said, nudging their talk back on track.
“What? Oh yes.” Angelica paused, then found the thread of the conversation. “I haven’t any mourning clothes. I suppose I ought to get some crape.” She met Mary’s eyes defiantly. “Oughtn’t I?” Crape fabric was fragile and impossible to launder, and anything Angelica bought would be ruined on her journey back to Vienna. Still, it was impossible to imagine doing without it.
Mary held her gaze. “You’re the mourner.”
“Did you wear mourning for your parents?”
Mary swallowed. “I was a child. I made myself a black armband from a ribbon I found.” “Found” on a lady’s hat, that is.
“A child? Oh, Mary.” Angelica’s eyes welled with tears.
Mary shook her head. “Don’t cry for me, please.” She paused. “Pretend you’re wearing crape! One good cry and it’ll be ruined.”
Angelica laughed and wiped her eyes. “You’re impossible. And you’ve helped me to an utterly radical decision: I shall wear black, but not crape.” She pushed aside her half-eaten roll and drank the last of her tea. “You’re a dangerous person to have about, Mary Quinn. My mother would have your head, if she knew even half of what you’ve inspired me to.”
Mary was inclined to agree.
On the omnibus ride to Regent Street, both women remained quiet. Mary looked at Angelica’s narrow face, carefully stripped of expression, and wondered what she was thinking. Was she preoccupied by thoughts of her father’s last days? Was she considering how to contact her mother, or reviewing the plans they might already have in place? Angelica might even be contemplating immediate action, a reminder that Mary had always to be on her guard with Angelica, especially beyond the safety of the Academy. Or perhaps Angelica was merely consumed by the enormity of the crime she was about to commit against polite society’s requirements for mourning wear.
At Jay’s General Mourning Warehouse, an emporium that combined the hush of a church with the confusion of a bazaar, Angelica completed h
er shopping transactions: a black woollen dress, ready-made but for the hemming and a few seams in the bodice; a plain black shawl; a black bonnet, minimally trimmed; black gloves in stout leather. All to be delivered that evening, in time for tomorrow’s burial. Angelica was remote, expert, price-conscious, her long years of peacocking once more an advantage.
When they stumbled out of the shop just a half-hour later, shivering in the chilly damp, Angelica said, “I did it. I was afraid I’d not be able to go through with it, but I did.”
“Were you afraid? You looked fearfully resolved, to me. And the sales clerk didn’t even try to tempt you with extras, he was so overawed by your authority.”
“He tried to argue with me on the gloves. He said they were unladylike.”
“What did you tell him?”
Angelica grinned. “I told him I wasn’t a lady.”
They walked in silence through the hubbub of Oxford Street for a few minutes, until Mary asked, “What else have you to do? Any other duties or commissions?”
“Nothing in the world, although I rather wish I did. A spate of busyness would do me a world of good, right now.”
Back to London, back to the enforced idleness of the lady. And ladies always needed diversions. Diversions or cakes. “Do you need to sit down for a spell? There’s a decent coffee-room near by.”
Angelica made an impatient gesture. “Oh God, not more sitting and sipping. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime!”
“A good long ramble?”
“Better, but my boots won’t take it…” Unexpectedly, Angelica’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve got it: the museum.”
Mary suppressed a jolt of surprise. Was she reading too much into Angelica’s visit to the British Museum, that vast treasurehouse of the nation? Hers could be a perfectly innocent visit, the sort that hundreds of people paid each day. Or it might be a statement of intent, a coded message that Mary didn’t yet know how to interpret. After a morning in Angelica’s company, she was no more confident about Angelica’s real motives than she had been last week.
