by Y. S. Lee
An involuntary curse escaped his lips, and he clamped them tight. Walking further into the room, he noted mechanically the extent of the destruction. Tables, desks and chairs were intact, although somewhat flung about. Filing cabinets dangled open, gutted like fish. Cupboards gaped. Desk drawers drooped and tilted, showing their empty depths. Shelves had been comprehensively cleared with the sweep of an arm. And above all this carnage, the large wall clock ticked on steadily.
James thought he understood: this was no ordinary burglary. Otherwise, they’d have taken the clock, the furniture, the technical instruments. No, the intruders had been after information, and he was quite certain what they wanted. He crossed the length of the office to a door with a maimed doorknob. He swallowed hard and steadied his breathing. Opened the door. Saw what he’d expected, and feared: the heavy steel door of the vault, like all the other doors, slightly ajar. As though the thief had thought to close it, then changed his mind at the last moment. No: her mind.
He opened the vault door, to be certain. Empty. Closed it with a groan. He forced himself to walk through the ruins, checking each corner, surveying the full extent of the damage. The least unpleasant aspect of it all was the absence of the night-watchman’s body. He had braced himself for the worst, but it appeared that the man had taken the opportunity to escape. Or possibly to collude with the thief.
At this notion, a scalding current of anger washed over him. He ran down into the street, shouting for a constable. He bellowed for a good while, loath to leave the office unprotected, although he wasn’t certain what further harm could come to it, short of total destruction by flood or fire. After what seemed hours but was probably only ten minutes, a constable came running. It took him a few minutes to grasp the situation, and then he was off again, swinging his rattle to summon all officers within earshot. The street was filling with workers now, a black-clad tide of clerks sweeping into the city, some of them his own employees. James was left to stand sentinel, informing them of the outrage and sending them home for the day. It was a simple task made exhausting now that the initial anaesthetic of shock and anger was fading away.
He thought of the hundreds of hours of work ahead, gathering and sorting and refiling the papers. He thought of the need to inform the Bank of England that their security was now compromised. He tried not to think of the consequences to his professional reputation, and to the family business in general. Most of all, he tried not to think of Mary.
Logic dictated that if Mrs Thorold had been busy here in Great George Street last night, Mary was probably still safe. Yet logic seemed impotent in the face of this hovering, all-encompassing danger: it was one of the very few times in his life that logic had failed him. When he realized that, a black despair seemed to grip him. It seemed that Mrs Thorold was always several steps ahead, toying with them, leisurely unfolding plans that they were powerless to disrupt. All they could do was react, and further entangle themselves in her web. Was that it? James swallowed hard. If this was the case, he might as well give up now. If there was no point in trying, one may as well embrace one’s fate and lie down meekly, waiting for Mrs Thorold to appear.
“Mr Easton, sir?” It was the original constable.
“Yes.”
“If you’re ready, we’d like to take you to Scotland Yard, sir, to speak to an inspector.”
“Isn’t an inspector coming here to view the scene for himself?”
The constable shuffled. “Well, that’s the usual way of things, sir, but what with those being plans for the vaults of the Bank of England, sir, and your saying that this might actually be the second attempt to steal them, we’ve got all our senior staff working on that, from this moment. It’d be a deal easier for us, if you didn’t mind coming down to the station.”
“What about all this lot?” James waved at the half-dozen or so policemen tramping about the office.
“Well, they’ll keep looking for clues, but the best way to find your thief is to catch the man who’s trying to break into the Bank, sir.”
There was no denying the logic: it was another way of saying that there is more than one way to skin a cat. A hoary old proverb. And yet it was the most bracing thing James had heard all morning. He felt the dark despair begin to lighten a little, and he straightened his shoulders. “Of course I’ll come,” he said. “I think I’d better speak to Chief Inspector Hall, if he’s available. I met with him a few years ago on a different matter, and I suspect it might be connected to this one.”
A little before four o’clock, Saturday
Mudie’s Circulating Library, New Oxford Street
James winced as somebody jabbed him, hard, in the shin. He turned and glared at an oblivious older gentleman who’d just walked past him, brandishing a very sharp umbrella. Then he sighed. There wasn’t a great deal he (or anybody else) could do, wedged as they all were into the circular hall of the lending library. The vast, double-height room teemed with borrowers, their eager voices floating up towards the soaring ceilings to be amplified and multiplied before reverberating endlessly. Clerks darted back and forth, scaling ladders, retrieving ziggurats of books that wobbled precariously yet never seemed to topple. It was the perfect place for a clandestine meeting, or to lose oneself altogether.
James resisted the temptation to check his watch yet again. Just an hour ago, he had been certain that he would have to miss this appointment with Mary. He had tried not to think of how she might interpret such a failure. Yet, quite miraculously, his meeting at the Bank of England had come to a rapid conclusion and he’d run the whole way to Oxford Street, desperate not to be late. In fact, he was ten minutes early. But despite his present leisure and the temptations all around him – three-volume novels, their green fabric spines stamped bravely with gold; delicate leather-bound octavos brimming with verse; proud, burnished volumes of science and politics, testing the limits of knowledge and convention with verve and elegance – he was, for the first time in his life, unable to appreciate their appeal.
The rest of the morning had been disastrous, of course. He’d spent hours with the police, explaining and re-explaining the situation in the aftermath of the burglary. Then had followed a humiliating emergency meeting with Mr Bentley and the rest of the Court of Directors of the Bank of England, in which he’d had to confess the theft of their architectural plans from a locked safe within a guarded office. Yet the theft, and the humiliation of his firm in the eyes of the public, were no longer at the forefront of his mind.
“Are you still reading the catalogue, sir?”
For a fraction of a moment, James’s heart leapt and he turned to the lady standing by his elbow. A heartbeat later, his spirits sank again. She was dark-haired, but there the resemblance ended. It was absurd of him to have imagined that shrill voice could have been Mary’s. “No. Do take this place,” he replied, and relinquished his spot in front of the enormous register. He preferred browsing the bookshelves, anyway.
He made his way through the crowd to one end of the room and selected, at random, a book from the shelves. From this vantage point, he could keep an eye on the door and the bobbing sea of hats and bonnets, whilst turning the pages in a studious manner. He’d no idea what Mary might be wearing. Would he recognize her as a lady’s maid come to fetch the latest sensation novels for her mistress, or playing a well-to-do lady of fashion? Of course he would, he told himself robustly; he’d know the back of her head purely from the way she turned her neck.
Had time ever passed so lethargically? James frowned at the book in his hands and discovered it purported to be the memoirs of a factory worker, a dramatic but dignified account of one labourer’s many hardships and injustices. He was familiar with the interests of working men – from a certain distance, at least. As a conscientious employer, he tried to listen to their requests. The Saturday half-holiday had been one of those. He was fully aware that many men of business did not. He had read the great minds of the age, male and female, on the subjects of poverty and industrialization.
He’d even read that extremely sentimental poem by Mrs Browning about the plight of factory children. But this book was different. The perspective, for one: it was the first time he’d seen, in print, the unmediated voice of a working-class man. He wondered how the man had learned to read and write; how he had come to have his life story printed. Despite his thrumming impatience, James was intrigued, and took the book up to the great counter in order that he might borrow it.
At last, the clock’s hands assumed the position that signified four o’clock, and James resumed his post by the stacks. His gaze was fixed upon the great double doors, continually swinging as people pressed in, flowed out. Mary’s stature made her easier to spot. He could dismiss three-quarters of the crowd from his attention simply for being too tall. As the minutes crawled on, however, he couldn’t repress a tremor of anxiety. Mary was punctual. He couldn’t recall ever having waited more than five minutes for her, but there was no sign of her in the doorway. Was it possible that she had been inside, all along, simply waiting for a suitable moment to approach him? Perhaps he had been followed and she, seeing that, was reluctant to confirm the link between them. Or … the suppositions grew darker and more violent, and it required real effort to wrench his thoughts away from tragedy and disaster. This was becoming a habit, at the moment.
It was ten past the hour, and he could remain still no longer. James carved his way through the writhing mass of elbows, crinolines and canes, and emerged into the almost wintry damp: a shock after the heat of all those bodies in the library. He chose a spot against the wall just a few yards from the main press of the crowds, yet which afforded a clear view of the entrance. Five more minutes, then ten. He was genuinely worried now, and wondered what on earth his next step might be. He was just weighing up the dangers of going to Mary’s flat when a female figure trotted briskly down the street towards him and, despite the fact that he was a perfectly still and predictable obstacle, half-collided with him at some speed. The book she carried slipped from her hand, somehow knocking his own volume, the Memoirs, from his grip. Both books fell to the ground and there was the distinct sound of a spine cracking, stitches tearing. James flinched. He couldn’t help himself.
As he bent to recover them, the lady scooped them both from the ground. “I do beg your pardon,” she was saying – gabbling, rather, in nervous, anxious tones. “My fault entirely – dreadfully short-sighted – so sorry – no great harm done, I think—” She pushed a book into his hands and was off again: not into Mudie’s, which James found peculiar, but directly past its entrance.
James stared after her, bemused. How short-sighted could a person be before she was considered blind? Then, automatically, he inspected the book for damage. It might have been worse: a few smears of dirt on the buff covers, one corner dented. It was also not his book. The volumes had been of similar size and colour, and the lady had taken away his Memoirs. He now held a slim volume of John Donne’s sermons.
Light dawned. James opened the cover and began to leaf through the pages. There, buried at its heart, was an envelope addressed only to “J” in a bold, yet entirely recognizable, pencil stroke that made his heart contract. He fished it out slowly, frightened that he’d drop it.
Dearest,
I am so sorry to miss our meeting; I was hoping for a chance to distract you again. I am following A to a meeting with her mother. I think you are now involved, too: Mrs F. is trustworthy. In an emergency, write to me c/o Miss Scrimshaw’s Academy for Girls, Acacia Rd.
All my love,
M
It was pure Mary: brisk, teasing, practical. It made him want to laugh and cheer and spring into action, all at the same time. Truly, it was just the tonic he needed.
The assurance that Mrs Frame was trustworthy didn’t make him like the woman any better, but it did clarify his own plans. Only an hour ago, in his meeting at the Bank of England, the Court of Directors had resolved on an unprecedented course of action. The work on the vaults had originally been planned to begin in the new year. With the revelation that their detailed plans had been stolen, however, the most influential Director, Mr Bentley, had suggested that they act immediately: this very night, the Bank’s entire store of gold would be removed from the vaults and sent by armoured train to Paris, for safekeeping. It was a radical plan, one that denied the thief time to make use of the stolen plans. It was also one that required the near-instantaneous summoning of England’s most powerful men: permission wrung from the Prime Minister, the active cooperation of the Chief of the Metropolitan Police and the assistance of both Army and Navy. It was a perfect illustration of the power of money.
James had been assured, half-heartedly, that Easton Engineering was held blameless in the loss of the plans, and he need do nothing until construction was ready to begin in the new year. He had remained outwardly acquiescent. But Mary’s letter affirmed his existing resolve. He turned into a convenient pub and scribbled a terse message to Felicity Frame, to be delivered by hand. Then he walked home to Gordon Square to prepare. He was far from satisfied. Mrs Thorold had, even from a distance, managed to cancel his meeting with Mary. And Mrs Frame’s dark insinuations about Mary’s new friend still troubled him.
However, the great removal was scheduled to begin tonight, at eleven o’clock. He would be there.
Fifteen
Early evening, the same day
Regent’s Park
Mary had spent the entire day in nerve-fraying stasis. After her frank but inconclusive conversation with Angelica last night, sleep had been a long time coming. Mary was still uncertain as to whether Angelica’s deepest loyalties lay with her mother but decided that it was, for now, irrelevant. What mattered was that Angelica could still lead Mary to Mrs Thorold. That was, after all, the point of her original assignment.
Infuriatingly, Angelica displayed no interest in being alone or leaving the Academy for the better part of the day. Mary had arranged for a second agent, in male guise, to shadow her. She asked that somebody convey a message to James at Mudie’s. As it was essential that the messenger be able to recognize James, Anne had undertaken the errand herself – an enormous concession that Mary appreciated all the more, since it stole a precious hour from Anne’s care of Ivy Murchison. Mary would also miss her appointment with Lang in Leicester Square, but she was less concerned about that. Lang knew that it was quite likely, and his only real danger this evening was the loss of a sum of money. Yet after all that preparation and anticipation, Angelica and Mary and the shadow-agent had loitered aimlessly about Regent’s Park all the afternoon. Mary checked her small watch and groaned inwardly. She could have met James herself.
Patience, she counselled herself. The longer you’ve waited, the more important it becomes to remain vigilant and sensitive. Much to her relief, the nearby bells of St Mark’s Church began to chime. That gave her the excuse to stretch her limbs, stiff and cold from sitting on a park bench, and say to Angelica, “It’s nearly the supper hour. Shall we walk back to the Academy?”
Angelica jumped, but that might not signify: she had looked strained and anxious all day, as though the burden of her secret was consuming her from the inside. “Oh, you go without me, Mary. I’m not hungry. I might just sit here a while longer, in the fresh air.”
Mary glanced about. Dusk was creeping on and the park was rapidly emptying of respectable ladies. It was far from unpeopled, however, and soon a different sort of woman would begin to make herself visible, beside lampposts and in the shadows beside the railings. Surely Angelica was worldly enough to know what misapprehensions might befall a lady alone after dark?
Angelica seemed to resent Mary’s hesitation. “Go on!” she said vigorously, flapping her hands in a shooing gesture. “I can take care of myself in a genteel park. For heaven’s sake, Mary, I’m travelling back to Vienna alone, tomorrow.”
Mary shrugged. “All right, then. I’ll see you a little later.” She set off casually along the gravelled path, not looking back. Once her light tread was beyond earsho
t, she stepped onto the grass and behind the wide trunk of a convenient tree. A moment later, Angelica glanced about sharply – left, right, behind – then squared her shoulders and began to walk, purposefully, eastwards.
Mary’s pulse leapt. She forced herself to give Angelica as much distance as possible: it would soon grow difficult to see her in the semi-darkness. In her plain mourning-wear, Angelica would become as discreetly invisible as Mary herself. For the time being, however, it was simple enough.
They left the park and began to pick their way southeast, trailing through Marylebone in a sort of silent procession: Angelica in the lead, followed by both Mary and, somewhere out there, the shadow-agent. Angelica walked steadily, but seemed unhurried. Apart from a certain sense of purpose in her bearing, this could have been yet another long stroll to pass the time. Yet Mary would have wagered a great deal that Angelica did, in fact, have a destination in mind.
Darkness gathered and thickened about them. There were still people aplenty in the streets: clerks and labourers trudging homewards, wagons creaking under heavy loads and the occasional lamp-lighter with his ladder and lantern, struggling to create a bit more illumination amidst the heavy fog.
They turned into Tavistock Place and Mary wondered, for a wild moment, if they were going to her own flat. It was impossible, surely, for Angelica and Mrs Thorold to know about that? Who could have told them but a member of the Agency, or perhaps James himself, under duress? She arrested her train of thought: that way lay panic and disaster.
Still, she felt a distinct sense of relief when they veered south, instead, winding their way towards Russell Square. Angelica slowed her pace and began a sedate stroll around its perimeter. The foot traffic was thinner here: most passers-by cut straight across the square, eager to reach their destination. As a result, each of Angelica’s footsteps in the gravel was faintly audible, and Mary again turned onto the grass and gave Angelica more distance in order to remain unnoticed.
