by Y. S. Lee
When she swung open the carriage door again, James was pulling on his own hip waders. For a moment, Mary watched, startled. It was a remarkable moment of false intimacy that felt parodic yet meaningful — at least until he glanced up and caught her peeping. A smug grin crossed his face. “Here’s the finishing touch.” He handed her a deep hat with wide strips of cloth hanging from its back — the sort of fan-tailed hat worn by dustmen — and a pair of oversize thick leather gloves. “Regulation wear for sewer flushers,” he explained. “Your choice, of course — but it protects the back of your neck from, er, anything that might drip down from overhead.”
She promptly donned the hat. “Let’s go.”
He refused her help in levering open the manhole cover. “It’s all right — it wants more skill than brute force.”
Watching him carefully maneuvering the huge cast-iron disk, Mary was struck once more by how healthy James looked. Seven months ago, he’d been a gaunt, shivering, feverish mess. Today, while still thin, he looked strong and capable and very convincingly recovered. Yet what she knew of malarial fever suggested that he ought to continue to be careful: one major relapse meant that he might be susceptible to more. Perhaps that latent fragility was part of what made it so difficult to tear her eyes from him. He glanced up and caught her gaze, and she felt her color rise again. Or perhaps she was just hopeless. She cleared her throat. “I’m surprised the cover isn’t guarded.”
“It’s just an ordinary manhole cover; putting a guard on it would signal that something was up.”
She nodded. “But . . . even from a distance? I’d post a concealed one, if I were in charge of the royal family’s security.”
He shrugged. “Entirely possible. I suppose we’ll find out.”
It was a practical — if uncomfortable — stance to take. If confronted, James could easily prove his presence was legitimate. Mary had no such hope.
With a shivering, grinding sound, the manhole cover slid to one side, and James flexed his hands with relief. Clearly, moving it had required strength as well as skill. He lit a pair of dark lanterns — lamps with metal shutters, to contain the light when it was unnecessary — and handed one to Mary. “Shall we?”
There was a ladder fixed to the wall of the manhole, slick with a thin, accumulated layer of moisture that Mary preferred not to analyze too closely. With her lamp closed for safety, she began her careful descent. Reaching the bottom rung, she was suddenly enveloped — not by the smell but by the intense warmth of the sewer. It was a different atmosphere entirely: thick and cloying, compared with the biting cold damp above, much like in the tunnel Honoria Dalrymple had discovered. Even the dank, almost salty smell was a more intense version of that which pervaded the palace tunnel.
The instant her feet touched solid ground, Mary opened the lantern just enough to create a small, concentrated beam of light and shone it about. The sewer was a brick tube, its floor only slightly damp. At its tallest point, it was perhaps seven feet high — more than ample for even a very tall man to stand upright in, as long as he remained in the center of the tube. This was surprising: Mary had expected a low, slimy series of caverns, noxious to smell and dangerous to navigate. And while it was true that they had a distinctly sulfurous odor, they were far from repugnant. The roads above ground were far muddier and more litter strewn.
James jumped the last couple of rungs, landing beside her with a quiet thud.
“You’re feeling lively.”
“Just trying to make you envious of my well-fitting waders.” He opened his dark lantern all the way, bathing them in a sphere of warm, yellow light.
She blinked, dazzled — by his playfulness as much as by the lantern. When had they become friends again? It was a dangerous idea, given their previous relations. Not to mention the risk of that meticulously banked ardor’s reigniting itself.
They set off at a moderate pace through the sewer, James in the lead. He walked carefully, surprisingly light-footed in his protective boots, and clearly familiar with this subterranean road. As they went, he noted points and objects of interest, composing for her a sort of condensed history of the sewers.
What she’d first thought to be a small private tunnel beneath Buckingham Palace was, in fact, one of London’s primary sewers, which started in Hampstead and ran eastward along the course of the ancient underground river Tyburn. It was a startling realization: that anyone working in the sewer — the “flushers”— had unguarded access to the queen’s private residence.
When she said so, James nodded. “That’s why this job’s been so secretive.”
“Well, that’s perfectly obvious. But I can’t believe that no one thought precautions necessary before now!” Did the Agency know of this? She ought to have been told.
“It’s not an open sewer,” he reminded her. “There’s a locked gate at the bottom, where it empties into the river. You’d have to know your tide tables, pick the lock, navigate part of the sewer by boat . . .”
“All right, so it’s not something you’d try on the spur of the moment. But it’s still awfully vulnerable for a palace.”
He glanced back at her, just for a moment. “We know. That will change, once this job’s done.”
She thought of Honoria Dalrymple. “Who’s ‘we’?”
“‘We’ is Easton Engineering, advising the Chief Commissioner of Public Works.”
“The same one you worked with on St. Stephen’s Tower?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes. That’s why I was offered this contract.”
They walked on in silence for a few seconds. Then she asked, “And how’s business in general?”
James glanced back. “Are you actually curious, or just making small talk?”
“Genuine interest. Does it matter?”
“Business is fine. I’d never say no to more work, but after the Indian disaster, I’m happy just to be busy.”
“And your brother?”
He snorted. “Now I know you’re only being polite.”
“Just because your brother disapproves of me doesn’t mean I dislike him,” she said primly.
“Hmph. Very high minded of you.” James paused, as though wondering how to answer such an apparently simple question. “George is quite well. He’s engaged to be married, so visiting his fiancée takes up much of his time these days.”
Mary’s thoughts flew instantly to the lovely girl with red-gold hair. And there was something ambivalent about James’s tone. . . . “Do you approve of his fiancée?” God help the would-be bride if he didn’t. James was very protective of his genial, blustering elder brother — and the family reputation. She’d learned the lengths to which he’d go on her first case, when he’d broken into a merchant’s study seeking proof of corruption on the part of George’s intended father-in-law.
James shrugged — a slight hitch of one shoulder that lacked his usual conviction. “She’s acceptable.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Not a very generous statement.”
“No,” he agreed, with a smile in his voice. “But an accurate one. She’s not very bright, and inclined to triviality. But she doesn’t seem unkind or deceitful. Of course,” he added, “I’ve met her only a handful of times.”
“Is her family important?”
“What, socially? Oh, no. Nothing to speak of.”
“But useful to you?”
He spun about suddenly, so that she almost walked into him. “You’ve a very low opinion of me, haven’t you?”
She ground to a most inelegant halt, just managing to avoid bouncing off his chest. “Of course not. I’ve just followed you into a sewer.”
His smile was sardonic. “You know what I mean: you think I’d only value George’s fiancée if she had a substantial dowry and came from a well-connected family that could help Easton Engineering.”
“Well, that is what you claimed when we first met.”
His brow creased. “It is?”
Oh, how she enjoyed having the upper hand in co
nversations with James. “Of course it is. You told me, with perfect conviction, that marriage was a business matter to be negotiated with the head, not the heart. You were very scornful of your brother’s affection for Angelica Thorold.”
“Oh. Well, I’ve revised my opinions a little since then.” Even in the dim yellowy light, she thought she could detect a slight blush climbing his cheeks. “The lady’s family is very respectable. I suppose people who care about that sort of thing would say that George has done well.”
“Well, then, what’s the difficulty?”
He turned and resumed walking. “Who said there was one?”
“You did — not in words, of course, but by your tone. Not to mention your general lack of enthusiasm.”
“Damn. I thought I’d gotten better at social hypocrisy.”
She smiled at his back. “Perhaps very slightly.”
“Thank you. I think.” They trudged on for a minute. The water level in the sewer was rising slowly, and liquid now swirled about their ankles, gleaming with grease. “There’s nothing properly wrong with Miss Ringley. It’s just that she giggles incessantly — her conversation is beyond inane — she listens to everything George says as though he’s, I don’t know, Moses delivering the Ten Commandments, and then says either, ‘Really?’ or ‘How true!’ I swear, I’ve never heard her say anything else in response.” James’s voice rose in agitation. “I don’t know how George hasn’t gone mad by now, but instead he’s enchanted by her.”
“She’s very beautiful.”
James spun about, fully interested now. “How might you know? Have you been trailing George about town?”
Mary felt an absurd, unfounded flash of guilt. “Of course not. I saw her. She was at your house — on Sunday.” Even as she said the words, a deep blush welled up within her. Impossible to forget what else had happened on Sunday.
“She wasn’t.”
“The girl in the blue dress? Strawberry-blond curls?”
James snorted. “Oh, that wasn’t Ringley. That was — never mind. On Sunday afternoon, George was at the Ringleys’ home.”
Mary felt a wave of humiliation settle over her like a pall. Of course George would call on his fiancée. Of course James wouldn’t dally on the rug with a girl he disliked. And of course he was free to flirt with, to court, whomever he chose. She was mad to have let their conversation stray into such personal matters: this was the inevitable price. “Where are we now?” she asked, feigning deep interest in the smeared and greasy brick walls. She’d not been paying attention and had no idea how long they’d been walking or the distance they’d traveled.
James looked at her for a long moment, but she didn’t dare meet his gaze. When he spoke, his voice was neutral, impersonal. “We’ve been moving south beneath the palace. We’re nearly at the disused tunnel you found the other night. Did you say you accessed it through the scullery?”
“From one of the lesser-used walls in the kitchens.”
“Right. So it’s quite recently built — within the last few generations, I mean. Any idea why?”
She shook her head. “If Buckingham Palace were genuinely old, it’d be quite obvious — a priest’s hole, or something like that. But it’s a new palace. George III used it as a family home, and I can’t see him getting away with building a secret tunnel, even after he went mad. Wasn’t he under the very strict control of his doctors and advisers?”
“We could speculate endlessly. But are there any physical clues as to why the tunnel was built?”
“By which you mean iron rings bolted into the wall for a secret torture chamber? Or racks for secret wine storage? Nothing of the sort. It’s a very blank, anonymous-feeling sort of tunnel.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m discussing the characters of various underground tunnels with you.”
“Well, we’re here now.”
She squinted into the gloom, and, sure enough, there was a black gap looming ahead that signified the mouth of a side tunnel. “What’s your theory?”
“Haven’t a clue. The tunnel doesn’t appear on any official diagrams or sewer maps, and it wasn’t mentioned to me by palace officials. I thought I’d gone mad when I first noticed it.”
“What did you do?”
“I hadn’t much choice. The laborers have begun work at the tunnel’s mouth, for security reasons. I notified the Master of the Household, who’s equally mystified. We’re stuck until he decides what’s to be done.”
She blinked. “It’s been a couple of days, though. Surely he’s gotten back to you by now?”
“You’d think. But apparently he needs a decision from Her Majesty, and she’s somewhat preoccupied.” He fixed her with a sharp look. “By what, I’m not privileged to know. But I imagine you are.”
She’d known it would come to this. And this, at least, was not trespassing on the Agency’s territory. “This is in absolute confidence.”
“Of course.”
“The Prince of Wales was involved in a violent incident on Saturday night. He’s physically unharmed, but there’s a very real possibility of scandal attaching to him.”
“What sort of scandal?” He frowned. “And how could that possibly consume all Her Majesty’s attention?”
“He was drunk and in an opium den. A Lascar attacked him and killed his friend. It’s unclear whether the murder was accidental.”
James whistled. “The Prince of Wales was friends with Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth’s set? I’m surprised he’s permitted that sort of fast company.”
Her eyes widened. “So you know about the murder?”
“Of course. All of London’s abuzz with it — although there are plenty of rumors and variations about who may or mayn’t have been at Beaulieu-Buckworth’s side at the time.” He looked at her curiously. “Haven’t you read about it? Don’t the servants talk?”
Mary’s stomach twisted. She’d been so thoroughly distracted by the problem of Lang Jin Hai that she’d forgotten to consider public speculation or read the scandal sheets. The sorts of high-society gossip and newspaper coverage she needed were firmly suppressed both abovestairs and belowstairs. It was like living in a specimen cage. But if James, who paid scant attention to idle rumors, had heard murmurs, then this was certainly London’s favorite subject.
“The servants,” she said slowly, “may be the last people in London to hear of the killing.” She was forcing herself to utter the dark words — murder, killing — as a reminder of the magnitude of Lang’s actions. Of the sort of trouble she was up against. “Gossip is strictly forbidden; whispering is practically grounds for dismissal. Please, James — tell me what you’ve heard.”
He looked startled at her use of his given name. “Of course. Though I must warn you, it’d be faster to tell you what I’d not heard. What’s generally known is that Beaulieu-Buckworth was in an opium den at an interesting hour. Although his family denies that he was intoxicated, it seems much more in character for the wretch to have been drunk and behaving offensively. He was attacked — utterly without provocation, says his family — and killed.
“This is where the variations begin: some say he was the aggressor. Others say the killer was an enemy, who’d disguised himself as a Lascar and lain in wait for the opportunity. Still others say the entire den of opium smokers rushed him en masse. Some accounts have Beaulieu-Buckworth fleeing into the street, calling for help; others have him defending himself at length before finally succumbing to the sheer number of assailants. Really, there’s no clear version and nothing like agreement, except on the fact that Beaulieu-Buckworth was a wild young man quite likely to die amid scandal.”
“But what of his companion?” pressed Mary.
James shook his head. “In most versions he’s alone; in a few, he’s with a gang of young bucks, who either flee or help to defend him. There’s the odd story featuring the Prince of Wales — but then again, when isn’t there? I think that, ironically, that one’s been discounted because there are always stories about the royal fam
ily. For such a prim family, they do get dragged into the most outlandish rumors.”
“The queen’s predecessors — her uncles and grandfather — were a rich source of gossip, and most of it true,” Mary reminded him. “Perhaps it’s just habit.”
“Or wishful thinking.”
“But as far as you know, nobody seriously thinks the Prince of Wales is involved?”
“No.”
Mary was impressed. Although Her Majesty’s influence over the Metropolitan Police was purely unofficial, it was fascinating to see how absolute that command was. “So only the royal family, two top-ranking officers at Scotland Yard, and you and I know the truth.”
“Should I be impressed?” grumbled James. “The Prince of Wales should testify, not hide behind his influential parents. He’s the only person who knows the truth about Beaulieu-Buckworth’s death. Regrettable as the young man’s life seems to have been, he still deserves justice.”
Ah, yes — James the just. His absolute ideas about right and wrong were part of the wedge between them, and she flushed a little at this reminder. “So far, he’s not been able to remember anything. He was quite thoroughly intoxicated, and his impressions are jumbled. The concern is whether exposure to public scrutiny and question in a court of law would serve any purpose at all.”
James’s mouth twisted. “And this is the future king of England: drink addled, incoherent, standing by while his so-called friends are stabbed by opium-addicted foreign criminals.”
“We can’t all be as perfect and morally upright as you are,” she snapped.
“Surely the prince has more reason than most to try. And why are you so indulgent toward his inadequacies, anyway? Don’t tell me you’re defending him!”
She said nothing. If James thought she meant Prince Bertie, so much the better. For how could she explain her instinctive, passionate defense of a murderous Lascar?
He stared at her for a moment, then raised his lantern and directed the light at her face. “Yes, I do believe you are: you’re trying to defend the Prince of Wales!” His expression was one of incredulity — disbelief that was quickly doused by a scowl. “I hope you’re not developing tender feelings toward such a pathetic excuse of a man.”
