The Traitor And The Tunnel Part 25

Wintermarch scowled. "That's enough. If you were my wife, I'd beat some civility into you."

The idea was enough to make her snort. "Asking logical questions is hardly uncivil."

He frowned and turned to James. "You want to teach her some respect."

James smiled and shrugged. "She's entirely correct."

The old man growled, set down his lantern and muttered something unflattering about the present generation. Al the same, he seemed off balance for the first time since his sudden appearance rather as though their joint impertinence had robbed him of momentum.

Mary's muscles twitched with long tension. Could she simply rush him? Would he fumble the gun, be reluctant to fire especial y at an unarmed woman?

Reactionary n.o.blesse oblige could work to her advantage here, but only if Wintermarch behaved in a logical fashion. With a rational vil ain, she stood a chance of antic.i.p.ating his next move. Wintermarch's utter unpredictability, however, kept her frozen.

It was during this lul gun wavering, Wintermarch gnashing his teeth, Mary and James watching, calculating, doubting that a most unexpected thing occurred. It was perhaps the most surprising development possible. For a new pair of boots dropped rather heavily from the ladder onto the guncotton-room floor. An extremely familiar but utterly improbable voice said, "Oof." And the smal , plump form of Queen Victoria appeared from behind the crates.

The three of them gaped, too startled to speak or even make a sound. In this subterranean cavern, lit by a single wavering lantern, the sound of trickling sewage in the background, the Queen's familiar face seemed most likely to be a hal ucination brought on by fumes and tension.

Yet even as they stared, the apparition spoke. "A rather clever false alarm, Wintermarch, but we don't see what you hope to accomplish with this stunt."

The earl blinked and stammered, "I sh-should have thought it rather obvious."

"No," said Her Majesty decisively. "Not at al ."

"Wel , I've proven that you're vulnerable. That your defences and security practices are inadequate."

"That wil always be the case, Wintermarch; our security is ever at risk. But our life is in G.o.d's hands, and we endeavour our best to rule despite these constant, remote possibilities."

"It's not so remote now," he sneered. But it was a weak sort of jibe.

"It is true that an individual monarch's life may be snuffed out at any moment. But what have you real y achieved?" asked the Queen. "After our death, we have four male heirs to the throne; the continuation of the House of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha is a.s.sured. The Prince Consort would make the finest of regents, and is a young man yet; his advice shal be available to the future king for decades. You may kil a single monarch, Wintermarch, but you achieve nothing in the act of regicide."

Her Majesty paused, but Wintermarch appeared unable to reply.

"Furthermore," she went on, "dare you imagine your treachery so subtle, so utterly original, that we have not been aware of your treasonous desires for some time? It is the reason your stepdaughter has been so recently elevated and honoured, for we keep our enemies close. As our predecessor, Queen Elizabeth, famously said, 'I have but the body of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England, too.' Have you so forgotten your history, Wintermarch?"

The revolver flashed again, held in shaking hands but aimed directly at the Queen. Instinctively, Mary and James both moved to stand between the monarch and her would-be a.s.sa.s.sin, but she waved them away.

"Fear not: the earl's time is past. He has long whispered against our authority, complaining of rule by a woman. The ruination of a kingdom and an empire. Yet his own scheme is irrational. Ineffectual.

It wil achieve nothing, leave no mark."

"Won't it?" shrieked Wintermarch, bracing his arm to shoot. "I'l prove you wrong, you-"

A sharp, hissing sound.

A sickening thud.

The earl's face contorted and a moment later he toppled forward, his body crumpling as though the legs were made of rags. The lantern barely tottered, coming to rest on its base, its smal flame wavering but unextinguished.

Mary and James stared at the Queen, then whirled to face Wintermarch's body. It lay slumped and p.r.o.ne, a long stick planted in its back like a flag. An arrow, Mary realized, her fuddled senses slow to interpret the evidence of her eyes. Behind her, the Queen gave a smal sigh the only indication of emotion she'd shown throughout this swift, strange unravel ing.

And now Mary heard a pair of boots splashing swiftly upstream towards them: the archer who'd kil ed Wintermarch. He knelt by the body, a.s.sessing his work. Glanced up at the Queen and saluted. "The shot went through the heart, Ma'am."

"A fine piece of marksmanship, Captain Mathers."

"Thank you, Ma'am. If you'l pardon the noise, Ma'am." The archer bowed deeply and whistled shril y three times down the tunnel. In response Mary heard a whistled reply and the marching of boots.

How long, she wondered, had the army been poised and waiting?

Queen Victoria sighed again. This time, Mary noticed her weariness, saw evidence of strain in the tiny beads of perspiration that dotted Her Majesty's forehead. "A bad end for a proud and foolish man."

James appeared speechless stil . Eventual y, Mary said, "Yes, Ma'am." But her mind whirled with questions. How had the Queen learned of Wintermarch's treachery? Where was Honoria Dalrymple now? And what had inspired Her Majesty to come down here herself? Despite her fine rhetoric about the royal line continuing, she'd risked her life in order to confront a madman. Had she died, the tragedy would have changed the arc of history.

"We shal thank you both for your loyal efforts at a suitable time," said Queen Victoria. "For now, Miss Quinn..."

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"We should be grateful for your a.s.sistance in climbing this rather rudimentary ladder. We are not so agile as we once were."

Thirty-one.

On the road to St John's Wood Mary couldn't have felt more bewildered had the Queen turned her upside down and shaken her vigorously. As she walked north through the relative tranquil ity of Mayfair, she found it difficult to stop thinking about Queen Victoria's astonishing arrival in the sewer. Her Majesty had behaved less like a doughty monarch and mother of nine, and more like a member of the Agency! Even her handling of Wintermarch the clever conversation, stal ing him until the archer was in position to fire was extraordinary. Not to mention the speed with which she'd organized the army and the judgement she'd shown in antic.i.p.ating Wintermarch's attempt at high treason.

It had been tempting for Mary to forgo al etiquette and bombard the Queen with questions. In the end, she'd not had the chance: Her Majesty was anxious to be reunited with her family, and to establish a measure of normality at the now-overrun Kensington Palace. She expected the removal of the nitrocel ulose to be swift, and to return to Buckingham Palace by nightfal . And so, very little the wiser, Mary made the journey back to the Academy.

It was to the Academy she needed to return not the Agency. She was in no state to report to Anne and Felicity. What she sought was a quiet room with a lock on the door; a place where she might think, without disruption. There were distractions enough in her thoughts. She slipped in through the kitchen door, putting a finger to her lips and smiling when she met El ie, the Academy's long-standing cook-maid. El ie smiled indulgently. She was accustomed to the girls' comings and goings, and blessed with an utter lack of curiosity.

Despite al that had happened today, it was stil only late afternoon and the girls were stil in their cla.s.ses. Mary gained her room without meeting a soul, locked the door, and began to col ect what she needed. From beneath a floorboard near the wardrobe, she extracted an envelope stuffed with pound notes the fruit of her nearly two years'

wages at the Agency; next, a letter of character written on fine onion-skin paper, testifying to the good temper and patience of Miss Anne Hastings as lady's companion. She changed her dress for a dark blue wool en gown, the warmest and plainest she had, and put on her stoutest boots. And then she was ready.

Except, of course, that she was anything but. She sat down heavily at her desk, staring at its scarred surface, its uneven varnish. Generations of girls had used this desk, leaving on it their marks. She'd always loved the sense of continuity suggested by the Academy that she was part of a new tradition, a brave enterprise on the part of impoverished young women. Was she ready to abandon this life, this ident.i.ty, entirely? For that was what she'd promised Lang.

She'd meant it with her whole heart. Yet now, sitting in her bedroom in the only home she'd known in over a decade, she wondered what it meant to abandon one family for the sake of another. Anne and Felicity had proven their devotion to her. They'd educated her, housed her, trained her. They had given her life purpose. Her loyalty to Lang was born only of history, of an irrational desire to feel a blood-bond with someone, even if he refused openly to acknowledge it. It was true that the Agency had failed her in smal ways, on this most recent case.

Yet its silence was a minor failing, especial y when compared with Lang's spectacular record of absence and violence. She could hardly expect perfection of Anne and Felicity when she herself was so far from faultless. And yet.

And yet.

She stood and pushed back her chair. Looked about the room one last time, in farewel . There were no personal effects missing, nothing that would suggest her disappearance had been planned. She knew this room so wel she could have sketched its every detail the ancient washstand, the trim about the window, the shadows cast by the window-panes by moonlight. Yet these memories would never be required, and it was best to let go of such intimate knowledge. It was as wel that she had experience of starting over so many times.

A phoenix suddenly came to mind: the mythological firebird that, every five hundred years, burned its nest to nothing and rose again from the ashes. She was no phoenix, she thought with something that came near a smile, but she could do the same. Aged six or seven. Aged twelve. Aged twenty. And, she realized, once more after her father's death. His second death, she noted, with a ghost of amus.e.m.e.nt. A family of phoenixes.

She unlocked her door, drew a deep breath and walked out straight into Anne Treleaven's hand, upraised to rap on the door.

Anne blinked. "Ah, Mary. El ie told me you'd come back. Were you on your way upstairs?"

"Upstairs" referred to the Agency's secret headquarters in the Academy's attic, where agents always reported upon their return. Mary gaped for a very long moment. Eventual y, she said in a choked voice, "Yes."

She trailed behind Anne as they climbed the stairs, steeling herself for the usual report. She hadn't a great deal to say stil hadn't much insight into Wintermarch's actions, let alone Honoria Dalrymple's involvement but she'd tel them what she could. And then she'd leave, having at least completed her first real a.s.signment. It was better this way, she told herself without much conviction. She touched her reticule, knowing that her future was tucked inside its lining. A strange sort of talisman, but it was enough for the moment.

As she entered the room, Mary's eyes fel on the first, most incongruous item: Anne's desk, usual y a vision of order with a lone sheet of foolscap floating on its oak surface, was heaped with folders and slips of paper. Her gaze flicked to the bookcase, which looked ransacked. Final y, she turned to Anne and noticed details she ought to have seen plainly three minutes ago and surely would have, but for her emotional distractions.

Anne Treleaven was the first person Mary had met at the Academy, the Agency manager she felt closer to. She was a thin, tidy woman with a prim, dignified air a born governess, to look at. Mary had seldom seen her show emotion or look less than immaculate. Today, however, her usual y neat chignon was loose and the front of her hair ruffled as though she'd been running her hands through it.

Behind her spectacles, her eyes were suspiciously bloodshot. She summoned a brief, tight smile. "Do sit down. I expect you're here for answers. It's taken us me some time to get the information you requested."

Mary stared. She'd seldom asked Anne a personal question. Even "How do you do"

sometimes seemed intrusive, depending on Anne's demeanour. Yet this scene was so startling that the words tumbled from her mouth. "Miss Treleaven, what's wrong? Are you unwel ?"

Anne shook her head. "I am quite wel , my dear.

But there's something we I ought to tel you. Sit down."

Al thoughts of Queen Victoria, explosives, James Easton and even Lang Jin Hai drained from Mary's mind. She lowered herself mechanical y into the closest chair. She wasn't going to like what she heard of this much she was certain. "I'm listening, ma'am."

Anne did not sit. Instead, she paced the width of the room, from her desk to the bookcase and back again. And as she pivoted, Mary noticed that half an inch of Anne's slip peeped from beneath her skirt hem. This, for Anne, was the equivalent of near-nakedness in others.

Mary sat in tortured suspense. And now that she had leisure for visions of doom and tragedy, a cold hand clutched her heart: something had happened to Felicity Frame. It was the only answer. Anne would never, otherwise, be alone in such a time of distress.

And the obvious disorganization around her it was no wonder Mary's requests for information had gone unanswered. "What's happened to Mrs Frame?"

Anne's smile was weary. "You always were fond of unanswerable questions." She stopped pacing and laced her fingers together, as though about to recite a poem. "My dear, I expect you've been aware of undercurrents and tensions for some time. The day-to-day running of the Agency is a complicated affair, and Mrs Frame and I have worked together for nearly two decades. It's quite common for col eagues, in such situations, to fal out, and you've already seen some evidence of differences of opinion between the two of us."

Mary nodded but did not speak. There was nothing to say.

"What has happened recently, however, is of graver import. There is no clever or subtle way to say this, Mary: after a fundamental disagreement about the future direction of the Agency, Mrs Frame and I have agreed to part ways."

Mary stared. She'd expected to hear of Felicity dead or missing. Or of a case gone badly wrong.

She hadn't expected this a nasty spat, the dissolution of a business arrangement. It was both dreary and petty, adjectives she'd never a.s.sociated with the Agency. So much for her childish notions of "home". "What-" Her voice was rusty and she cleared her throat before trying again. "What are the consequences for the Agency and its operatives?"

Anne sighed. "Both simple and complicated, I'm afraid. Mrs Frame has, for some time, been keen to change the scope of her work. She has wanted to admit men to the Agency and to cultivate certain powerful contacts she made in government. You've been privy to some of her suggestions for example, that we invite your friend James Easton to join the Agency. She was also responsible for committing the Agency to the case you worked on at St Stephen's Tower, which was so very nearly disastrous."

"Bad-mouthing me behind my back, Anne? I didn't expect that from you." The voice rich, dramatic, slightly amused came from the door. It was Felicity, of course extravagantly dressed, as usual, in a garnet-coloured silk gown. A scarlet woman, walking away from her home, her friends, her dependants. "Good afternoon, Mary. I see I'm just in time to balance the picture." She waved a dismissive hand at Anne. "Oh, don't ruffle up. It's best for her to hear it from both of us."

Anne swal owed something likely her temper and said, "True. I've just explained your desire to make changes: adding male agents and chasing your Westminster contacts."

"There's no need to make it sound grubby."

Felicity turned the force of her charisma onto Mary.

"Everything's changing, Mary: London. Politics.

Society. The empire. Everything except the Agency. I don't think that's right, and I'm d.a.m.ned worried about being left behind.

"As you know, Anne and I differ on this matter.

This break has been coming for some time although I apologize if it is a complete shock to you and I'd hoped there would be a minimum of disruption and resentment." She looked meaningful y at Anne. "But I suppose it's always difficult, breaking apart an organization."

Mary didn't like this. Of course, she hated the idea of the Agency changing. But she specifical y disliked the way Anne and Felicity were sparring, sniping at each other like petty girls, rather than conversing as intel igent adults. "I thought the Agency was a col ective," she said. "That's how you described it to me before I even began my training."

Anne nodded. "You are correct. But over the years, Mrs Frame and I have been its day-to-day managers. We maintain contact with clients, organize contracts, do al the background research that is so essential for the agents' success."

"In practice," cut in Felicity, "we've a choice: whether to chart a new course for the Agency, or to continue straight on."

"Shouldn't you have asked al the agents for their positions? It's not right to leave us in the dark, then present this fracture as a fait accompli." She'd never spoken in such a tone to the two women; wouldn't have dreamt it possible an hour earlier.

Anne's smile was tight. "You make an excel ent point, Mary. That's precisely what we ought to have done, had we been aware of the magnitude of Mrs Frame's change of heart. I, for one, am ashamed of and disappointed in the way matters have played out."

Felicity's scowl was fleeting, almost immediately replaced by a look of regret. "My darling girl, fractures are just that: sudden and irreversible.

Unavoidable, even. But you're quite correct, in that al you agents are autonomous and free to choose.

And that's what I want to explain to you now.

"I shal be leaving the Agency to establish my own intel igence organization. It wil , as I'm sure Anne has mentioned to you, take a different approach to intel igence work one that does not exclude men, but treats them as al ies; also one that seeks to expand its current field of expertise.

"As a ful y trained agent, you are free to choose whether you wish to stay with the Agency, which wil continue under Anne's direction, or to fol ow me. You needn't choose immediately, of course. But as our philosophical differences are quite clear, we hope this parting of ways wil be swift, if not painless."

It seemed so simple, so very tidy, in Felicity's words. And yet what she was proposing was nothing less than an undoing an undermining of the Agency's founding principles. If this reflected Felicity's real interests, the truly astounding fact was that she'd remained at the Agency for so long.

"We understand, of course, that you'l have questions," said Anne. She seemed more settled now that the news was out. Perhaps she was even buoyed by Felicity's clear, cal ous explanation, which said much more about its author than it did about this new, shadowy rival to the Agency.

Mary had plenty of questions but not the sort Anne imagined. Now that the initial shock was fading, she realized she had already seen the hairline fractures in Anne's and Felicity's united front.

The disputes had begun during the case at St Stephen's Tower, as Anne had said. Sending Mary onto a building site disguised as a twelve-year-old boy had been a large step sideways for the Agency, and Anne had deplored it. And when Anne had a.s.signed Mary to the Buckingham Palace case, Felicity had grumbled at its pettiness, its insignificance, while Anne had defended it as cla.s.sic Agency casework.

But despite her anger and disappointment in Anne and Felicity, it made her path clear. She'd spent her whole life longing for family. Had found one here, at the Academy. A second, even more exciting one in the Agency. And now it was breaking up.

Even had she doubted the decision to al y herself with Lang, her choices were slowly, inexorably being removed.

Thirty-two.

"What are you thinking?" asked Felicity.