by Y. S. Lee
Bertie’s bedroom was a strange place. The bed and night table were old and good yet almost puritan in their austerity; the bed was plainly made up with a woolen blanket. These, presumably, represented the prince consort’s ideas about the unpretentious simplicity of healthy young manhood. But sprinkled throughout the room were the lavish items preferred by his son — embroidered silk dressing gowns and gold-filigreed opera glasses, an ornate clock with mother-of-pearl inlay, and a rather good oil painting of a voluptuous maiden clutching a trailing scarf to preserve her modesty.
Mary smiled and wondered if the painting disappeared when Bertie’s parents inspected his bedroom, as they almost certainly did. The dressing room was a small place, probably not originally intended for an adult’s use, jammed with row upon row of apparel: crisp linen shirts, silk cravats, morning suits, evening suits, an entire rack of top hats, riding costumes, fishing jackets, cricket whites, fencing costumes, and even a pair of boxing gloves. Mary picked her way through these excesses to a small chest of drawers whose surface was, again, a cramped abundance of pomades, lotions, colognes, shaving implements, ivory-handled hairbrushes, and other mysterious male beauty products. There was no room here for unwanted medicines.
With a hesitant hand, she explored the drawers one by one: silk stockings and rolled-up pairs of braces; undergarments, again silk; and in the bottom drawer, nightcaps and handkerchiefs, neatly pressed. She was taking a couple of handkerchiefs with good conscience when her fingers brushed against something hard and smooth.
She froze. Had she the right to pry like this? Fetching medicines and linens was one thing, sifting through the contents of Bertie’s closet quite another.
She heard his voice, reedy and querulous, from the sitting room. “Mary? What’s taking you so long?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I can’t see the medicine. What sort of bottle was it?” She twitched aside the next handkerchief to uncover a small porcelain vase decorated with a neoclassical painting of two women embracing: Persephone and Demeter, reunited.
“Never mind the medicine,” came Bertie’s voice, anxious now. “I don’t need it. Just — come back here and have another glass of wine with me.”
“I — I ought to find it, just in case. You may need it later.”
A moment’s silence. And then Bertie appeared in the doorway of the dressing room. “Just don’t open —”
She turned to him, revealing the open drawer, the bright gloss of glazed porcelain.
He swallowed. Flushed. “Oh. I see you’ve found . . . er . . . I bought the vase for my mother’s birthday. Don’t tell her, will you? It’s a surprise.”
“Her Majesty’s birthday is in May.”
“Well, yes. I like to be prepared. Sometimes you just see something, don’t you, and you think, That’s it! It’s perfect.”
Such desperate, transparent lies saddened her more than anything. It must have been evident in her expression: he fell silent. She stood the vase on the last few square inches of space on the chest of drawers, nudging aside a hairbrush and a jar of unguent to make room. “It’s a charming vase,” she said quietly.
He swallowed, said nothing.
“May I take it out to the sitting room? The light’s better there.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“All right.” She stood, closed the drawer, and followed him back through the bedroom to the sitting room.
He found his wineglass and knocked back its contents. “You’ve been kind to me. Not only today, but during our past conversations. I suppose that’s what gave me the courage to — you know.” He gestured. “Anyway. That’s all I meant to say.”
It was a clear dismissal, but she stood her ground. “I’m afraid I have something more to say, sir.”
He refused to look at her.
“It’s about the vase, sir. I noticed it was missing yesterday as I was cleaning the Blue Room.”
“Don’t be ridiculous: how could you know it’s the same vase you think might be missing?”
“The things on the mantel were rearranged, sir. And the vase — it’s one of a pair. It’s the paintings, sir.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask for specifics: she couldn’t see a housemaid explaining the myth of Persephone to the classically educated prince.
He remained silent and still.
“I imagine you have your reasons for having taken it, sir. . . .” Although she couldn’t imagine what they might be. He was heir to all this vast wealth. And he had a generous allowance now from his parents. Was it a game of sorts? A new and indirect way to distress his mother? Mary doubted it: Bertie lacked that sort of subtle cruelty.
He spoke quite suddenly. “Yes, I have. I incurred some debts — the horses, y’know. I hope you’ll have the decency to keep this quiet, Quinn.” At her surprised look, his tone became defensive. “It’s only a vase. There are thousands more scattered throughout the palace and in its stores. It’s not especially valuable. And if you don’t report it, chances are nobody will ever notice it’s gone.” He forced a grin. “So how about it, eh? We’re friends now, aren’t we?”
Mary stared at him with — yes, more pity. “Your Highness, if this were my decision alone, I would keep quiet. Truly, I would.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “But . . .”
“But there’s been more than one theft, hasn’t there?”
His jaw hardened. “Has there?”
“Yes. And a maid’s been sacked over them. She’s out on the street — no job, no letter of character, no money. And now the housekeeper thinks I stole this vase to try to clear her name.” She watched the unwelcome news sink into Bertie’s brain. Watched him deny. Struggle. And then, very gradually, relent.
“So if I don’t come forward . . .” he said, very slowly.
“Amy Tranter will never find work in service again. And I’ll be out of a job as soon as Mrs. Shaw finds a good enough reason.”
“Oh, God.” Bertie buried his face in his hands, this time in simple despair rather than hysteria.
It was difficult not to reach out to console him, rub his head. Spoiled, entitled, and weak he might be, but he was a fundamentally good-hearted young man attempting to live up to very public expectations that were perhaps unrealistic.
After a short eternity, he raised his eyes to hers. “I’ll do it. I’ll tell my mother.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. It’s —”
He interrupted her with a gesture. “Never mind that. Just go.”
“Yes, sir.” As she left the room, she cast one last glance at the prince. He stood in the window, hands planted flat on the wide sill. His eyes were closed, and he appeared to be thinking or praying.
Her sympathy was worth nothing to him, but he had it all the same.
The Bertie episode had taken a great deal of time, long enough that Mrs. Shaw would demand an explanation for her absence. Mary was quite looking forward to it. Having so unexpectedly succeeded in completing her original assignment, she would now take great pleasure in being sacked. It would, in theory, be even more satisfying to resign first, but that was strictly against Agency protocol: an agent never left her post in a showy or confrontational fashion. Even Mary’s sore shoulder and ringing headache felt like reasonable sacrifices now that things had unfolded so neatly.
As she approached the housekeeper’s room to request some willow-bark powder — and, of course, to initiate the fateful conversation with Mrs. Shaw — she heard the housekeeper declare, “I decline to summon any member of my staff at a stranger’s request. Furthermore, I fail to understand how you gained access to this part of the palace.”
The voice that followed sent an electric tingle across Mary’s skin. “The latter is no mystery, ma’am: I walked in through the servants’ door. But can I not impress upon you how urgent my errand is? I must speak to Miss Quinn.”
Laughter bubbled up in her throat, and she didn’t bother to repress it. The Agency’s rules about showy departures clearly didn’t allow for thi
s sort of complication. She ran the last ten paces and barreled into Mrs. Shaw’s room. “I’m here, James. What’s the matter?”
He swung about at the first syllable. “Mary, thank God. It’s an emergency.”
Mrs. Shaw rose, outraged. “This childish prank is entirely and regrettably like you, Quinn. You are —”
As James caught her arm and drew her into the corridor, Mary heard herself dismissed in the most outrageous language Mrs. Shaw knew, but she hadn’t attention to spare. James wasn’t the panicking type, but he was utterly rattled now. “How can I help?”
He spoke quietly. “Find the queen. Tell her she must evacuate the palace. Royal family first, but all staff, too. You’re all in grave and immediate danger.”
She stared at him, mouth dry. He was in deadly earnest. Mrs. Shaw had followed them into the corridor and stood behind him, continuing her furious harangue against Mary’s many sins and shortcomings.
James wrapped his hands around hers, pulled her close. “Mary. Please. There’s no time for me to go through official channels. You’re the only one.”
He didn’t look mad. But surely . . . “James, I need a reason. I can’t just ask the queen to do something without an explanation.”
“You’re not asking her; you’re telling her. I’ve just found explosives in that underground tunnel: crates upon crates of guncotton. She needs to clear out immediately, then call the army to dispose of it.”
Mary nodded. “How far need she go?”
“I don’t know exactly. A mile, at least.”
“I’ll suggest that she go to Kensington Palace. Anything else?”
“No. Yes. You’re to evacuate with them! Wait there until I send word.”
She half smiled at that, but he remained deadly serious. “James, this is a stupid thing to say, but — be careful.”
A brief smile. An even swifter kiss, right there in the corridor, under Mrs. Shaw’s nose. “You, too.” And then he was gone.
“Sacked! Do you hear me, Quinn? Pack up your things this instant.”
Mary started down the hall at a run. It was teatime. Her Majesty would be in her private parlor, two stories and half a palace away. “Quinn! You’re going the wrong way!”
She spared a glance for poor, overwrought, furious Mrs. Shaw. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her entry into Her Majesty’s presence was a shade more circumspect: she entered the private parlor at a brisk walk, eyes lowered, and immediately prostrated herself in a deep curtsy.
Even so, Queen Victoria frowned and two burly footmen instantly caught hold of her, poised to march her from the royal presence. “This is highly irregular,” said the queen.
“I apologize for intruding, Your Majesty. I have done so only as a matter of national security.” Mary raised her eyes — although not her head — and caught a glimpse of the queen staring at her. Honoria Dalrymple stood in a corner of the room, riveted by Mary’s sudden appearance.
“Continue.”
She nearly sighed with relief. “Your Majesty, the engineer engaged in repairing the tunnels beneath Buckingham Palace has discovered a grave danger. To preserve your safety, you must evacuate the palace immediately.”
The queen stared at her for a full ten seconds. “We have not been informed of any danger by the palace guards. What sort of danger?”
“A high explosive known as guncotton, Your Majesty. Sheets of cotton impregnated with nitric acid. They’re highly unstable.” Her training in the use of explosives had been brief, but it was enough for her to know and fear the extreme danger of guncotton. Her heart squeezed painfully as she thought of James making his way back down into the tunnels. She couldn’t afford to think further or imagine the worst.
“Impossible!” That choked utterance emanated from behind the queen. Honoria Dalrymple’s skin was ashen, her eyes wide and staring.
“I’m afraid not, ma’am. Mr. Easton, the engineer, is entirely reliable. He says this is a task for the army.”
“Leave us,” said Her Majesty.
Mary felt the footman pulling on her shoulders. “Please, Your Majesty, I assure you —”
“Not you,” said the queen. “We were addressing the others.”
Honoria and the two footmen gaped at her. “But Your Majesty, this is clearly . . .”
Even the footmen added their silent protest, dragging Mary a step closer to the door.
“Release this person and leave us now. Time is of the essence.”
With reluctant, dazed steps, the three exited the room, so utterly startled that they failed to observe the rules of precedence.
The instant the door clicked behind them, Queen Victoria spoke again. “Your name?”
“Quinn, ma’am. Mary Quinn.”
“And how, Mary Quinn, are you so privileged as to know about threats to the empire before anybody else?”
She bowed her head. “I’m acquainted with the principal of Easton Engineering, ma’am. He told me because it was the swiftest way. Your Majesty, I implore you to believe me.”
“This is logical enough. But you must offer some form of proof of your reliable character: any sufficiently determined and resourceful mischief maker could report such a tale. One could even heap some boxes in a disused sewer and pretend they contained explosives.”
She was perfectly correct, of course — and as reasonable and logical as Mary dared hope. “Your Majesty, I am the person recently engaged to resolve the matter of a string of petty thefts. I offer my employment as a character reference.”
Queen Victoria’s eyebrows shot up. “Indeed.” Her unspoken thought was clear: Not what I expected at all. But she soon rallied. “I see. And if I were to ask for the emergency password?”
Mary tried not to grin. She’d never before had the opportunity to give the phrase that identified her to the client. “I would say ‘Adrift in Zanzibar,’ ma’am.”
Her Majesty flashed a neat, vivid little smile that was promptly replaced by her usual gravitas. “In that case, we’ve no time to lose, Miss Quinn. Kindly ring that bell.”
Not for Queen Victoria panic and its attendant chaos. Within a quarter of an hour, the young princes and princesses and their attendants had been bundled into coaches for the short drive to Kensington Palace. The queen had then summoned the most senior domestics and explained with admirable brevity the need for them to vacate the palace immediately and without fuss. And she’d ordered the highest-ranking army officer in London to meet her at Kensington Palace. Now the Queen of England and Empress of India stood outside, wrapped in a plain woolen overcoat, overseeing the departure of her staff of hundreds. Behind her, standing at almost military attention, was the prince consort.
“Your Majesty, with respect, time is short,” said Mary.
Her Majesty nodded at the carriage that awaited her, not twenty yards off. It was an anonymous black coach, an irreproachable choice for discretion. “It is our responsibility to safeguard those in our employ.”
“Yet your safety is of the utmost importance, both for your family and for the country.”
The queen gave her a sharp look. “And what sort of general would flee before the enemy, leaving his troops to scrabble their way to safety as best they could?”
“Please, ma’am, at least stand away from the building. Every bit of distance is essential.”
Queen Victoria agreed to this minor modification, but for Mary it was a nerve-racking wait while the last of the staff trickled from the palace. They were an orderly crew, although many, ignorant of the real reason for their departure, were distracted or fussy or generally reluctant. As they passed beneath the queen’s gaze, however, each seemed suddenly tidied by an invisible hand: spines straighter, shoulders squarer, any whispers or giggles instantly quelled. When at last they were all safely beyond the palace gates, walking in neat procession through the parks like so many schoolchildren being given an outing, only then did the queen permit her husband to hand her into the carriage.
From her perch on high, she
looked down upon Mary. “Well? Aren’t you coming, Miss Quinn?”
Mary shook her head. “It’s most kind of you, Your Majesty, but I’m needed here.”
The queen elevated her eyebrows ever so slightly. “Mr. Easton said this was a task for the army.”
“Yes, ma’am. But until the army arrives, he’ll need my help.”
A long, hard look.
“Please, ma’am — your safety.”
“She is right, Vicky,” said Prince Albert.
“Very well. We shall pray for your success, Miss Quinn.”
Mary curtsied very low. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
She waited only until the carriage was in motion. Then, with one last look at the gray, drizzling world aboveground, she hurried back into the palace.
James stared at the crates of guncotton, wishing they were a hallucination. This was entirely his fault. Immediately after that bizarre midnight episode with the man with the etched-glass lantern, he ought to have sealed all sewer entrances and placed them under constant guard. Yet the idea of banning the flushers, of obstructing routine maintenance, had seemed excessive. He’d been reluctant to create panic where none was necessary, draw attention to a weakness that remained exposed. And this was the price for having been cavalier.
Now he was responsible for the hysterical threat to, and possible destruction of, Buckingham Palace. He knew precisely when the boxes had been moved in: at midmorning, he’d been called away from the site by a mysterious letter offering information about the midnight sewer explorer. Like a fool, he’d succumbed to the ruse. Left the manhole under a watchman’s supervision. And returned three hours later, none the wiser, to find that the watchman had absconded. It had been annoying and worrisome. But even then, he’d not expected the full horror of what awaited him in that strange antechamber just off the main sewer.
It had taken time to work out what the boxes contained. One of guncotton’s dangerous traits was its innocuous appearance. After all, it was merely cotton or wood fibers impregnated with nitric acid and left to dry. A crate full of guncotton looked like so much harmless fabric — unless one’s suspicions were already flaring, as James’s had been. He’d prized open each of the dozen boxes, dry mouthed and sweaty palmed the entire time. The slightest impact, a moment of clumsiness, and the whole tinderbox could have gone off.
