by Y. S. Lee
“The third matter is your definitive – that is not too strong a word? – identification of Mrs Thorold, however brief. It would be much better to know her approximate location, of course, but you did your best.” Mary flinched inwardly at this implied criticism but managed to maintain her external composure. “We must now proceed with the knowledge that she is in town, and active. I hope the police will increase their efforts to locate her as a result of your identification.
“We now come to the fourth point: the Bank of England, and Mrs Thorold’s presence there. Are you inclined to consider it another attempt to confuse and distract?”
Mary shook her head. “If I had followed her into the City, then certainly. But I noticed Mrs Thorold entirely by coincidence and she was in the company of a gentleman who returned to the Bank after seeing her off. It should be relatively straightforward to confirm his identity, if he works at the Bank. He’s in his sixties, with a distinctive mole at the end of his nose.”
Anne nodded. “I’ll enquire. If he is indeed an employee of the Bank, you have identified Mrs Thorold’s most plausible target.”
Mary suppressed a small surge of pride. This was all highly conditional, and part of the job, besides.
“At this point, Mary, have you any proposals as to your next course of action?”
This was an entirely new question from Anne, and one Mary didn’t know quite how to answer. Nevertheless, Anne was looking at her expectantly, so she drew a deep breath. “Much hangs upon the identification of Mrs Thorold’s gentleman-companion,” she said. “Until that is accomplished, I think I ought to stay near Angelica. She told me of her father’s funeral tomorrow. It was not quite an invitation, but I’ll try to turn it into one. It’s not impossible that Mrs Thorold might be present there, in some way.”
Anne nodded. “Entirely reasonable. If Angelica prefers to be alone, let her go. It will build her trust in you, and I’ll ensure that she’s shadowed by someone she won’t recognize.” There was a brief hesitation, then Anne asked, “Mary, when were you last in contact with James Easton?”
Mary started at the mention of his name, then promptly blushed at her utter transparency on this subject. “This past Saturday,” she said, after a second, with only a slight tremor in her voice. “Five days ago. Why? What do you know?”
Anne looked embarrassed. At least, thought Mary, she didn’t look tragic or solicitous – sure portents of truly bad news. “Perhaps the most regrettable consequence of Felicity Frame’s departure from the Agency is the rivalry between our firm and her new … establishment,” Anne said. As she spoke, a faint tide of pink rose from her throat to cheeks to ears. “We find it necessary to track Mrs Frame’s activities, as she does ours. She would have been fully aware of my request to you nearly a week ago.”
Mary found herself spellbound, both by Anne’s admission and her evident emotional state. This, from the most disciplined and formal woman she knew! “You never informed me that I would be watched by Mrs Frame’s agency, too.”
“I thought long about the omission, but decided you didn’t need the additional distraction.”
“It distracted me, anyway. I spent unnecessary time and energy watching the widow outside Newgate! Had I known Mrs Frame might be present, that would have helped me to recognize her.”
Anne nodded, her eyes closed in pained apology. “It was an error on my part. One I shall not repeat.”
Mary disciplined her anger. “We were talking about Mr Easton.”
“Yes.” Anne, too, drew on her deep reserves of sangfroid. “Yesterday, Mrs Frame paid a visit to Easton Engineering. Clearly, we were not privy to her conversation with Mr Easton, but it is quite likely that she attempted to recruit him to her cause.”
Felicity’s cause: Anne made it sound underhanded and reprehensible. Yet what had Felicity done, really, apart from welcome men to her new firm? It was really no different from Quinn and Easton, only on a larger scale – except, of course, that Felicity’s departure had sundered the Agency as all knew it. It had also destroyed the profound intimacy that existed between Felicity and Anne, a bond that Mary had never before thought to question. She wondered which Anne regretted more.
She spoke quietly into the loud silence and with more assurance than she felt. “You need not worry about my arrangement with Mr Easton. We have an understanding, and we will not permit other rivalries or distractions to undermine that. If Mrs Frame asked for Mr Easton’s help in locating Mrs Thorold, my only concern is for his continued safety. I believe, otherwise, that he will act with his usual intelligence and discretion.” She paused. “In fact, if we still believe that the Bank of England is Mrs Thorold’s target, then Mr Easton, as an engineer, could offer insight as to how such an audacious robbery might be possible.” Yes. That was entirely logical. Her confidence rose slightly, although not so high as her firm tone suggested. She couldn’t leave the subject entirely, however, without some reassurance. “So far as you know, Mr Easton is safe? There have been no threats or approaches?”
“He seems to be conducting business as usual.”
“Thank you.” Earlier, Mary had wondered whether to mention her two appointments on Saturday: with James at Mudie’s, and with Lang in Leicester Square. Now, in light of Anne’s excessive secrecy, Mary decided that she, too, was entitled to some privacy.
“Mary, I understand your anxiety for Mr Easton’s well-being,” said Anne, with perceptible hesitation. “Would it ease your mind if we were also to monitor his movements? We should be able to inform you of any irregularities or incidents in his day.”
Mary’s first impulse was to accept, wholeheartedly and with profound gratitude. As she considered, however, she shrank from the idea. It wasn’t purely the trampling of James’s privacy that she disliked, or the prospect of Anne knowing every detail of his life. It was the presumption that more knowledge on her part would keep James safe. It was the arrogance of attempting to play God in the life of a man she loved and respected. Perhaps, at core, it was the outrage she would feel at the prospect of his doing the same to her.
She raised her head and said, “Thank you, Miss Treleaven, but no. My duty now is to remain focused upon my assignment, and I trust Mr Easton to do the same.”
And on Saturday they would meet.
Friday, 19 October
Miss Scrimshaw’s Academy for Girls Acacia Rd, St John’s Wood
Where is Mrs Thorold?
Mary lay in her bed early on Friday morning, the words swelling within her until they seemed to press against her skin. She was gritty-eyed, jittery, frustrated: the fraying threads of her investigation, her anxiety on James’s behalf, her frustration with Anne’s needless secrecy, combined with Angelica’s desire to talk late into the night, had made for a short and fractured rest. All the same, it was time to rise. It was the morning of Henry Thorold’s second-hand funeral.
Mary sat up and glanced at the narrow bed on which Angelica lay perfectly still, eyes open and unblinking. It was an evocative pose – her hands were clasped across her chest, corpse-like – and Mary froze, reluctant to interrupt her meditations.
“It’s all right,” said Angelica, in a remarkably normal voice. “I’m not going to have hysterics.” She continued to study the ceiling – or perhaps her attention was focused on something well above the rooftops.
Mary slid her feet into her slippers and huddled into her dressing-gown. Bedrooms at the Academy were always cold; only the main rooms had their own fireplaces. “I doubt you’ve ever had hysterics. Unless, perhaps, it was strategically useful?”
That raised a smile. “You’re rather uncanny, Mary Quinn. I shall neither confirm nor deny that.” A pause. Then, “I was just thinking about today. I think … I know you’ve offered to accompany me, and I’m grateful – but I think I’d prefer to go by myself.”
Mary watched her for a moment. “So long as you’re certain.”
Angelica nodded and swung her legs out of the bed, pushing her long braid over her shoulder.
“I think all that bosh about women being too delicate to attend funerals doesn’t really apply in this case. If I’m strong enough to visit my father in jail, I’m certainly capable of burying him.”
Mary nodded. “You’re much braver than anybody could reasonably expect.”
“I don’t feel brave. Or reasonable.”
“I imagine you feel numb.”
Angelica’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. “Yes. How did you guess?”
“Numbness is useful. It gets one through difficult times.”
“What sort of hard times have you been through, Mary?” Angelica sat up. “As an orphan, I expect you’re speaking with good authority.”
Mary paused. She was unwilling to share much of her own story with Angelica; to reveal just how much she had in common with the former débutante, despite first appearances. “Oh, the usual,” she said, filling the basin with a small amount of water from the jug. “I was a perfect Oliver Twist.” She washed her face briskly and came up gasping. “Lordy, that water’s cold.”
Angelica looked at her for a long moment, and Mary could almost see the questions brimming on her lips. In the end, all she said was, “Well, Oliver, we’d best get dressed if we’re to have any porridge.”
After a communal breakfast, Mary helped Angelica to dress for the funeral. This was hardly necessary: Angelica’s new wardrobe was as spare and practical as Mary’s own, obviating the need for a lady’s maid. But the newly delivered mourning clothes still lay in their box, swathed in sheets of crisp tissue paper, and Angelica was loathe to unpack them. The assumption of mourning dress was a confirmation of the fact, a public declaration of private grief.
Once dressed, Angelica surveyed herself solemnly in the long mirror: a very pale, oval face nearly overwhelmed by layers of black. She opened her lips once or twice, then shut them again. Eventually, she said, “It’s time I went.”
They walked down to the front door in silence, passing a small cluster of pupils in the corridor, who fell silent at the sight of Angelica. A hansom idled at the kerb, steps already folded down. Anne Treleaven had organized this yesterday.
As she mounted the last step up to the cab, Angelica turned to Mary. “This doesn’t feel possible,” she said, in a thick voice. “I keep thinking I’ll wake in my own bed and discover this was all a dream. My old bed, I mean, in Cheyne Walk.”
“Are you quite certain you’d prefer to go alone?” asked Mary.
The cabman’s horse stamped and jibbed impatiently, and Angelica hastily sat down. “Yes. That is, I think it’s what Papa would prefer.”
The cabbie looked from Angelica to Mary. “All right then, miss?” At her nod, he slammed the door and climbed stiffly into the driver’s seat. Mary’s last sight of Angelica was hindered by the black veil, but there was no mistaking the hunched shoulders and bowed head.
Angelica Thorold was weeping.
Thirteen
Early afternoon, the same day
Miss Scrimshaw’s Academy for Girls Acacia Road, St John’s Wood
At precisely one o’clock, all pupils and teachers at the Academy filed into the dining room. They seated themselves, noses twitching at the tantalizing aroma of fish pie. As the girls ate, gossiped, teased each other, argued about their morning’s lessons and anticipated the afternoon’s, one chair at Mary’s table remained conspicuously empty.
It was to be expected, Mary told herself. The funeral would have been deeply distressing. Angelica would need time to be alone, afterwards. It was quite likely, in fact, that she was already back in their shared bedroom, unable to face the cheerful dinner-time throng. Despite these exceedingly reasonable justifications, however, Mary was uneasy. And after the grace was said and the girls dispatched to Regent’s Park for fresh air and exercise, Mary discovered that Angelica was nowhere to be found. Not in their bedroom, not in the school’s small but surprisingly private garden, not at the nearby park.
By the time the girls’ light supper was served at six o’clock, there was still no genuine cause for panic. Darkness was falling, true. But Angelica was a grown woman, intelligent and well-travelled. A few hours’ delay in her return was still within reason, especially given today’s emotional freight. All the same, when Mary heard a hesitant knock at the front door, she dashed to answer it and swung the door open wide. She stifled a scream.
It was a cabman, a broad, middle-aged fellow with an anxious face, cradling in his arms the too-still body of a woman. “This here Miss Scrimshaw’s?” he asked, tripping slightly over the name.
“Yes. Come in, please.” Mary ushered him into the drawing room, lit the lamps, spread a blanket on the longest sofa and asked him to settle the woman upon it. She commanded the startled girl who answered the drawing room bell to fetch Anne Treleaven, a doctor, a basin of fresh water and as many clean towels as possible; also vinegar, honey and smelling salts.
It had been dark in the room when they’d first entered. Now, Mary turned to the sofa and saw, with a jolt, that it was not Angelica Thorold, after all. The woman was lying on her side, facing the sofa cushions. Greying chestnut hair spilled from her battered bonnet. She had a handle sticking out of her back, between the shoulder blades.
The sight was so peculiar that Mary bypassed nausea and panic and arrived directly at numb efficiency. She placed the back of her hand against the woman’s cool cheek – it was cold out, she reminded herself fiercely – and thought she felt a whisper of breath escape her mouth. “It’s all right,” Mary said softly, quite certain she was lying. “You’re safe, now. You’re at the Academy.” She peered at the knife handle. It protruded a good four inches from the woman’s back, just to the right of her spine. Mary knew better than to try to pull it out, but what did one do with stab wounds, precisely?
“Thank you for bringing her,” she said to the cabman, as she waited for clean water and dressings to arrive. He stood awkwardly, unsure what to do. “What – what happened?”
The cabman looked sick and confused. “Damned if I know,” he said. “Pardon my language, miss, but it ain’t every day I finds a dying woman in the street. If it hadn’t been for her eyes – she looked at me, you know, just looked straight at me, and I swear, they were my own dead sister’s eyes looking at me – I don’t know I’d have gone near her, otherwise.”
A new voice, low and taut, demanded, “At what time did you find Miss Murchison?”
Mary and the cabbie spun to see Anne Treleaven, who edged past them towards the sofa. Her skin was ashen.
The man gaped at Anne, mouth opening and closing silently.
“It’s all right,” said Mary, before he could take a step backwards. “This is Miss Treleaven, our head teacher. Please tell her everything.”
“Less than half an hour ago, ma’am. I brought her here directly, soon as I could tell what she was saying.”
Hope rippled through Mary. If this woman had spoken within the last half-hour, and spoken clearly enough to give an address, she might still live. They had to believe that. Unless Mary was grievously mistaken, this woman was the agent who had been trailing Angelica Thorold today.
“You called for a physician, of course?” Anne’s voice was recognizable now.
“Yes.” Mary bent over the woman again, trying to see just how much blood was seeping from the wound. “Would you be so kind as to shine this light upon the lady?” she asked the cabman, pointing at a small table lamp. He complied, but the beam of yellow light shook. “Did you notice anybody with her? Or running away from her, perhaps?”
“I–I don’t know, miss. I was that surprised.”
Two maids arrived, bearing hot water and other supplies. Mary placed a cushion beneath Miss Murchison’s chest and said, over her shoulder, “Steady with the light, if you please.”
“Allow me,” said Anne Treleaven. The light bobbed for a moment, then became stable. “Please do sit down, Mr, er…?”
The pause was long enough that Mary glanced round, just in time to see the cabbie’s eyelids flutter as
he swayed gently backwards. Anne turned a moment later, but neither woman was in time to catch him as he crashed to the floor, rattling every lamp, table and ornament on the ground floor. Mary winced.
“Poor fellow,” murmured Anne. “He’s had little thanks for being a Good Samaritan.” She knelt on the carpet and began to slap his cheeks firmly and dispassionately. As Anne roused the squeamish cabman, Mary returned her attention to Miss Murchison and began cutting away her cloak.
A faint groan came from the cab driver. “Oh, Lordy, what a nightmare!”
“I must ask you to keep still a few minutes longer, sir,” said Anne. “I’m afraid you fainted.”
“Eh?” The testy confusion in the man’s voice would have been amusing, but for the present emergency. “What’s that you say?”
“You fainted, sir,” said Anne, raising her voice slightly. “Do keep still in case the dizziness returns.”
Silence. Then, “I thought this were all a nightmare.”
“I wish it was so, too. But I’m afraid it’s very real, and we are extremely grateful that you brought our friend back to us.”
“She alive?”
“I–I don’t know.” Anne’s voice was leached of emotion. “Mary?”
“I think so.” Mary breathed a prayer that she would be able to distinguish between help and harm. All agents received some basic medical training in case of emergency, but she had never dealt with a wound this severe. She opened the cloak and began scissoring through Miss Murchison’s brown woollen shirtwaist. It sprang open willingly, revealing a bloodstained corset and, just above that, a one-inch slit framing a knife blade. Mary placed a clean towel around the wound and pressed firmly. “She’s bleeding fairly slowly, for now. If the physician arrives soon…”
A deep sigh: the sound of a large man hauling himself, painfully, to a seated position. “I found her over in Camden Town,” he said. “She were leaning against a lamppost, waving, trying to get a cab. I thought she’d been on the gin, at first, she were that unsteady on her feet. And why didn’t she just find a taxi rank, if it came to that? Anyway, there weren’t nobody else stopping, and I’d have driven on, too. Only the look on her face, it weren’t the face of a dru— begging pardon, I mean, a lady indisposed. I thought, here’s a lady in genuine trouble, and what’s she doing in Camden, anyway?”
