The Traitor And The Tunnel Part 16

Nineteen.

The servants' dinner was a grim feast that day. It was impossible not to look at the two vacant places at table Amy's and the stil room maid's and Mrs Shaw's angry surveil ance became a constant accusation aimed at the entire staff. Even the footmen, who were not subject to her discipline, seemed sobered by the morning's ugliness. Mary missed Amy already, for her giddy good humour and company, and also selfishly because her departure made it impossible for Mary to slip out after dinner.

Once the meal ended, instead of fulfil ing the task that had haunted her for days, Mary col ected a pot of bra.s.s polish, a pungent paste made up of vinegar, salt and flour, and set off for the Blue Room. It was the largest of the reception rooms, formerly Amy's responsibility. Now it was hers until another maid could be engaged part punishment, Mary supposed, for her having questioned Mrs Shaw's actions.

It wasn't entirely punishment, however. This was the room from which the ornaments had been stolen.

That fact, combined with Amy's uncharacteristic meekness when she'd been accused of theft, had Mary's suspicions aflame. Much as she liked Amy, al that had happened today played into her theories about Octavius Jones. Al that was missing, of course, was evidence. But she could send word to the Agency. They could have Jones tailed. They could even search his home. She a.s.sumed they were stil able, even if they'd not yet replied to her queries about Honoria Dalrymple, about the tunnel, about Jones.

Mary applied a thin layer of bra.s.s polish to the doork.n.o.bs and window-catches, mul ing over new possibilities. While Jones was her primary suspect, she couldn't yet declare the matter resolved. There was stil the problem of Honoria Dalrymple, of course. Between creeping through secret tunnels and trying to seduce the Prince of Wales, the lady-in-waiting was clearly up to no good. And it was stil unclear whether hers was an il egal, to-be-stopped malignancy, or mere mischief-making, in which case she was beneath the Agency's notice. Mary wished she and James had agreed a more precise plan the night before. They'd left things open, each seeking to glean what they could in the course of the day. But she'd feel better knowing what James was doing, and why.

"There you are."

Mary started and turned. Surveying her from the doorway, a stiff, quizzical smile on her lips, was the second-last person in the Palace she wanted to see. She bobbed stiffly. "Mrs Dalrymple." Mary was unsurprised when Honoria walked into the room and closed the door behind her. She was surprised, however, by the hints of uncertainty that hovered beneath the surface of Honoria's neutral expression.

And she was downright startled when Honoria began to speak.

"This morning's turn of events was unfortunate for al present," said the lady-in-waiting in cordial, businesslike tones.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I bear no grudge against you, Quinn, for what you saw. You were simply doing your duty." Her tone was magnanimous and perhaps rightly so. Although she was only being reasonable, wounded pride was difficult to overcome.

"Thank you, ma'am," said Mary, when it became clear that some response was expected.

Honoria frowned and began to pace back and forth signs of discomfort that surprised Mary even more. "I am not too blind to see things as they real y are," began Honoria. "Although, as you heard the gentleman say, I'm rather too mature for his tastes, it's evident that you are not." At this, she wheeled about and fixed Mary with a hard look.

"Ma'am?"

"Don't trifle with me, Quinn. It's plain that Bertie fancies you. It's not every new parlour-maid who's ordered to fetch him breakfast, and he in his dressing-gown."

Mary felt herself begin to blush in response. "It's not like that, ma'am. Truly, I don't want that sort of attention."

Honoria's perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up.

"You surprise me, dear girl. Most young women in your position would give their eye teeth for such an opportunity."

So she was now Honoria's "dear girl"? "You may think it strange, ma'am, but I do not find the idea appealing."

Honoria sat down on the nearest chair and crossed her ankles a relaxed posture that failed to fool Mary. "So you prefer anonymous drudgery to life as the royal favourite?"

Mary was taken aback. "There's no saying I'd be the favourite, ma'am. A young man's pa.s.sing fancy would be the ruin of me."

"Pff! Such melodramatic words. Young women these days are al such timid things, ful of shuddering prudery."

Mary permitted herself the faintest of smiles. "Are you suggesting that I try my luck, ma'am?"

Honoria sat up very straight, looked Mary in the eye and said, "I've a proposition for you, young lady.

It wil make your future, if you've the stomach for it."

Mary put down her polishing rag and a.s.sumed a listening posture. Final y, things were becoming interesting.

"A woman who beds a man holds a great deal of power over him. He is often unaware of this, which makes it even more potent. She may ask him questions that n.o.body else dares, or compel him to do things he would never otherwise consider. Do you fol ow me?"

"I think so, ma'am."

"This gentleman has knowledge I.

want; information that wil make a great deal of difference to me. You may be the young woman who can dig out that knowledge."

Mary's eyes widened. "You're asking me..."

"To bed him," said Honoria. She seemed to enjoy the phrase, uttering it with crisp relish. "He's a young man. Almost certainly a virgin. And he desires you. It is for you to choose whether this stroke of good fortune wil change your life, or whether you'l continue toiling in obscurity for a pittance." She paused. "Think how easy life could be: no more work. A townhouse and a carriage. Servants of your own. Frocks and jewels and furs. These are the rewards of the best paramours."

Mary al owed her expression to glaze over with impressionable wonder. Honoria was an effective advocate for the courtesan's life, if a highly biased one. Cal ow, uneducated housemaids didn't reap the sorts of rewards she described; they were much more likely to end up pregnant, discarded and in the poorhouse. However, Quinn-the-parlour-maid wasn't meant to understand that. "Al that, just for...?"

A frosty smile.

"But what if he doesn't like me, after a little while?"

Honoria leaned in for the kil . "I wil look after you myself. There wil be a generous reward and a letter of character. Al you must do is get the information I require."

Mary made a show of mul ing this over slowly enough that she saw a flicker of impatience in Honoria's eyes. "You're very kind, Mrs Dalrymple,"

she said with exaggerated slowness. "But ... I just don't know."

Honoria smiled again, and this time there was more than a hint of cruelty in her lovely face. "Let me put this to you differently: you wil use al your meagre charms to coax the information I require from the gentleman. The instant you cease to comply, I shal have you sacked for immorality."

Mary gaped. "But ... I ain't never ... I'm a good girl, Mrs Dalrymple."

"But who would ever believe that?" Honoria's smile grew wider. "Certainly not Mrs Shaw, once I tel her that I caught you in the Prince of Wales's bed this morning."

The two women stared at each other one openly triumphant, the other privately so. A minute ticked past. And then another.

"I'l do it," said Mary. "On two conditions."

"As I thought," said Honoria with a smirk. "Finer mettle than first appears."

"I want this afternoon free. Wil you arrange that with Mrs Shaw?"

"I'l tel her I need you to do some sewing."

"And I can't start tonight."

Honoria's frown was instantaneous. "Why not?"

"It's my time of the moon."

"Oh, for pity's sake. Very wel , then. When tomorrow?"

"Perhaps," said Mary cautiously. This ruse would certainly be short-lived, but the more time she could buy herself, the better.

"Very wel , then." Honoria stood up to sweep from the room, but Mary stopped her with a slight gesture.

"What is it?"

"What is it I'm to find out for you?"

Honoria hovered a moment the first sign of uncertainty Mary had noticed before sitting down again. "What I tel you is in complete confidence. If you repeat this to anybody, not only wil I deny this entire conversation but I'l destroy you. Do you understand?"

Mary nodded. There was something admirable about the woman's ruthlessness.

"A few days ago, a relation of mine was murdered in uncertain circ.u.mstances. The gentleman of whom we speak witnessed the murder. It is claimed by his physician that he cannot recol ect the details. Of course, that is untrue. False and malicious rumours are now circulating about the manner of my relation's death. These must stop. Your task is to convince the gentleman of his duty to clear the record or, at the very least, to learn what real y happened."

Mary blinked. This was nothing short of a revelation: Honoria Dalrymple was not only a relation of Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth, but was so persuaded of his virtue that she was wil ing to prost.i.tute herself to clear Beaulieu-Buckworth's name. Having failed in that endeavour, she hadn't hesitated to blackmail a bystander into doing the work for her. Had Mary real y just thought such ruthlessness admirable?

Perhaps in its utter conviction. And why hadn't the Agency come through with this information, days ago? It was a matter of public record. She repressed a flash of resentment and focused on Honoria's stony, elegant features. "And ... if I can't persuade the gentleman to tel me what happened?"

Honoria bared her teeth in another predatory grimace that only just qualified as a smile. "Then you shal have to work harder."

Twenty.

Wednesday evening Tower of London One of the ridiculous things about London was that although it was almost always faster to walk to one's destination, the streets were clogged with vast numbers of carriages, hansom cabs, wagons, omnibuses and horses, al desperate to be somewhere, al il ustrating the triumph of hope over experience. Despite the satisfaction she took in the walk from Buckingham Palace, Mary felt her confidence dip as she neared the Tower of London.

Part of this, she knew, was by design: its approach was a bleak stone wal interrupted only by arrow loops that enhanced its forbidding aspect. Al the same, she felt very smal indeed as she presented herself at the gate.

"Here to see who?" The guard looked her up and down.

"A new prisoner: Lang." She was wearing her best hat and Sunday coat, and on leaving the Palace had swiped an old silk umbrel a that may or may not have been Mrs Shaw's. The overal effect was of prim respectability a governess or a lady without much money, rather than a servant.

Even so, something about her seemed to give the guard pause. "And who might you be to the prisoner?"

"My name is Miss Lawrence, of the St Andrew's Church Ladies' Committee. We heard of the prisoner's plight and wish to be al owed to minister to him."

"Bit irregular, this," grumbled the guard. "Usual y it's a delegation of ladies."

Mary leaned forward and lowered her tone. "I hope I may rely upon you not to repeat this, sir, but this Lang was rather an unpopular prisoner within our committee. There have been so many rumours about his offence, and with some of the ladies very proud of their distant connections with the best families..." She smiled, a weak apology that nevertheless seemed to go a long way.

"Aye, he's a troublemaker, that Lang," agreed the guard, unlatching the gate. "And he's none too polite, neither, so you want to watch yourself, miss. He ain't above using strong language to a lady."

"Thank you," murmured Mary. Now that she was inside, she found it difficult to tolerate the guard's easy chatter. She wanted perfect silence as she picked her way through the vast, slushy courtyard; a last few moments of futile hope, aimed at the man who might be her father. Absurd. She didn't even know what she hoped for.

She turned her mind away from childish wistfulness and concentrated on her surroundings.

The Tower of London, she'd always been told, was actual y many buildings within a single set of fortifications, built by different kings over hundreds of years. This made sense only now, as she stood within its bounds, craning her neck up at the different towers. She would need a map to navigate between them al . But she would remember each step of her journey to this particular tower that loomed over her, weather-blackened and Gothic.

"Cradle Tower," said the guard easily, as they came to its entrance and he pa.s.sed her into the care of another guard. "Al the best traitors were kept here."

"History repeats itself," said the new guard in a portentous tone.

The two men chuckled and Mary wondered how much of the gossip about Lang they actual y believed. Not that it mattered. She scarcely knew herself.

The second guard was less inclined to conversation. After a cursory glance at the contents of her handbag, he led her up a narrow flight of stairs that smel ed of mouse nests, circling higher and higher until they emerged on the top floor. They pa.s.sed through a low, arched doorway into a dim antechamber. It smel ed different here, of ancient meals, burnt tal ow and unwashed bodies.

Mary felt a lurch of fear. Somehow, she'd expected the approach to be longer, more complicated; to have time to prepare herself. Yet perhaps a dozen paces before her was a stone wal , interrupted by a door made of iron bars. She seemed unable to persuade herself that the prisoner was right there.

"Visitor, Lang," said the guard in a bored tone.

Mary held her breath. The voice: would it be her father's? Yet several seconds pa.s.sed, and the only reply was a soft susurration like tree branches moved by a moderate breeze. Was Lang shuffling his feet? Chafing something against the wal ?

"Lang!" barked the guard. He eyed Mary with suspicion. "He expecting you?"

She shook her head, voice temporarily lost.

The guard strode to the door and banged on the bars with his truncheon. "Get up, Chinaman. There's a lady here to see you."

Stil nothing.

The gaoler looked at Mary, eyebrows raised, as if to ask, what now?

She cleared her throat. "Is he always like this with visitors?"

The man snorted. "Ain't had none. 'Less you mean the chaplain, and he ignores him. He ain't violent, missy don't let them stories frighten you. He just sleeps al day, unless he's got the shakes."

"The shakes?" Her voice echoed sharply off the stone wal s.

"Drug fiend. He were found in an opium den, weren't he? And he ain't had none for four days, now. Raving, he were, the first couple of days. A regular madman."

"And now it's pa.s.sed?"

"Wel , he couldn't keep up that malarkey; lord, it were tiring just to see."

"What about food or drink?"

The guard shrugged. "Prisoners, they got their notions. Most of them try a hunger strike, sooner nor later."

"But if he's had nothing for four days, he'l soon be dead. He'l never make it to trial!" Mary fought to keep a sharp note of panic from her voice.