The Traitor in the Tunnel Page 2

  Amy kicked off her shoes and winked. “Well, a girl can’t stay in the same place forever. Even if it’s quite a nice one.”

  “I didn’t know you were ambitious.”

  She smiled broadly. “Oh, aye. My ambition’s to stop being Miss Tranter and to become Mrs. Jones.”

  It was a common enough ambition, and Mary nodded, folding up her letter. Amy was well-nigh unstoppable on the subject of her beloved Mr. Jones.

  “What’s that, then?” asked Amy. Her voice was muffled by the dress she was pulling over her head. “Love letter?”

  “It’s from my mother.”

  “Lordamercy. Anything juicy?”

  “Not really, but I’ll ask permission to go and see her tomorrow.”

  “Dearie me, you’re but a babe unborn. Here, give us a hand with this corset.” As Mary obediently began to unpick the fiercely knotted strings, Amy asked, “Why haven’t you got a beau? You ain’t ugly.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You know what I mean, silly. Don’t you want a beau? No, daft question: every girl wants a beau. But you’ve got to be sharp about these things, y’know — not just any beau will do. Them footmen — waste of time, all of them. What you want is a gentleman friend. Somebody with a bit of class, a proper gent.”

  Mary nodded mechanically. She’d heard this before — each night, in fact, as they got ready for bed. It was the Gospel According to Amy.

  “No sense in wasting your time with some poor cove in service. What’s he got to offer, eh? A life just like this one. No, you want a gent what can set you up in your own home. You want to be the mistress.” She prized off the corset and plucked at her crushed, rather damp chemise. “Ooh, that’s better! I were like to die in that. Now, you take my Mr. Jones: nice office job — late hours sometimes, but his time’s his own when he ain’t there. And so soft and clean, his hands are, when he comes round! Never any black under the fingernails. It half makes me ashamed of my own.”

  Mary hadn’t heard exactly this variation before, and her ears pricked up. “He comes round here?”

  Amy’s mouth opened and shut soundlessly, and her cheeks flushed pink. “Er — not round here, exactly . . .” she finally managed to say. “I mean, only of a Sunday, when he calls to take me for a stroll in the park.”

  Mary stifled a smile. “Oh, I see. Well, he sounds very nice.”

  “He’s better than nice.” Amy smiled. “Tell you what: I’ll ask him tomorrow if he’s got any friends what might like to meet you.”

  “Oh, there’s no need,” said Mary immediately. “Honestly. I don’t want a beau. Not right now, that’s certain. Maybe one day . . .”

  Amy looked at her with genuine pity. “A babe unborn,” she muttered, shaking her head. “A babe unborn.”

  Mary woke with a start, as from a nightmare. She lay in the bed, trembling slightly, trying to think why. She couldn’t remember what she’d been dreaming of, but its residue troubled her in an unusual fashion. As she retreated further from sleep, she became aware of Amy’s serene snores, quiet and steady, and the relentless clatter of rain on roof shingles. It was still black outside — not that darkness indicated a great deal during a London winter.

  She shivered again, now from cold rather than fright. Her hot-water bottle was frigid. She forced herself to sit up and pull on her dressing gown. The palace was completely silent, below and around her. Mary nestled deeper into the bedclothes, willing her tense limbs to soften back into slumber. And yet, what did it matter? She was being recalled from her assignment today; she’d likely be back in her own bed at Miss Scrimshaw’s Academy tonight, if she knew Anne and Felicity. She waited another minute for sleep to take her, then grimaced at her own foolishness.

  No. If this was her last opportunity to work on this case, she had better exploit it. What was the use in imagining a still, silent palace if she stayed neatly tucked up in bed? Below that logic simmered the irrational hope that a scrap of proof — any sort of lead, however slight — might persuade Anne and Felicity to let her continue. It was a lightweight assignment, true. But perhaps that way of thinking had influenced her approach, had caused her to give it less than her full, thoughtful attention. If so, this was her last chance to put that right.

  She dressed swiftly in her morning uniform, a light print dress designed to mask dust and smudges from her cleaning duties. Indoor shoes, which were lighter and quieter than her boots. She hesitated before knotting her hair and added the compulsory maid’s cap and apron, both of which made her more visible in a dim light. Still, she could hardly wander around without them and expect to be unchallenged. At least if she wore them, a casual passerby might assume that she was on duty.

  The corridor smelled of mildew, sweet and damp. Halfway down the hall, someone snored loudly; the thin doors did little to muffle the sound. But apart from that innocent rattle, all was quiet. The service stairs were narrow, so vertiginous that even in full daylight Mary kept one hand on the banister when descending. Now, in the dark, she moved slowly, establishing a foothold on the next small tread before shifting her weight.

  The Blue Room, from which the trinkets had been stolen, was locked each night according to the Master of the Household’s instructions. There were three keys, distributed among the queen, the master, and Mrs. Shaw, as the master’s deputy. It was locked now. Yet it wasn’t as secure as everybody assumed. This was an old mechanism — no bad thing in itself, but one installed before the palace had become the palace. Back when it was Buckingham House: a grand home for a duke, to be sure, but without the strict need for safety and privacy required of the primary royal residence. Mary withdrew her special hairpin — a steel needle, fine and strong, and rather longer than one might expect. It was special issue from the Agency, and remarkably useful in a diverse number of applications.

  Opening a lock without proper lock picks was a delicate operation requiring patience and a keen ear. She would have to work each tumbler round to the correct position and keep it there. Mary made herself comfortable. But she was only a few minutes into this operation when she was distracted by, of all things, the faint sound of a bell ringing. It was so improbable as to make her shake her head, in an effort to clear it. Surely she was imagining the continual jangle of the service bells belowstairs, her daily life bleeding into her nights?

  And yet . . . she froze.

  Listened.

  After a few moments, it started again, louder and more frantic if that were possible, and continued for perhaps a minute until it broke off midpeal. Mary abandoned her task, slid the hairpin back into place, and stood, wondering what might come next.

  She hadn’t long to wait.

  This time, the rumpus was different — a kind of vigorous hammering. It was much louder now, and she followed the sound to the Ambassadors’ Portico, on the palace’s east wing. From where she now stood, at the top of the flight of stairs to the second floor, the sound was unmistakable: somebody was pounding furiously on the palace doors, seeking admittance at — the chiming of a nearby grandfather clock conveniently announced — the ungodly hour of half past four in the morning. A Sunday morning, no less.

  Mary’s course of action was clear. She couldn’t possibly have heard the ruckus from her quarters; neither could she explain the fact that she was fully dressed for morning service. So she retreated into the shadows, tucking herself behind the useful grandfather clock, and waited.

  The thumping let up for a moment, but only so that the caller could redouble his efforts. In fact — she listened carefully — it was at least two men, hammering slightly out of rhythm with each other. They weren’t using their fists — that much was certain; human knuckles would be bloodied and broken as a result of that sort of vigor.

  At very long last, a sleepy manservant stumbled into the hall, clutching a single candle. He wore livery trousers, a half-buttoned jacket, and no shirt that Mary could see. “Who goes there?” he said, yawning, clearly not expecting a sensible answer.

  “The Metropoli
tan Police, on a matter of urgency!”

  The footman rubbed his eyes. “Now, see here, this ain’t the time for a prank. It’s a serious business, coming here and disturbing Her Majesty in the middle of the night. If you don’t pack up this instant, I’ll send for the real Scotland Yard. Go on, then!”

  A different voice came this time: a calm male voice, quiet, with real authority. “This is Commissioner Russell of Scotland Yard. I am not trifling with you, my good man. We require an immediate audience with Her Majesty the queen.”

  The servant blanched and nearly dropped his candlestick. “Just a moment, Your High — er, sir. I’ll fetch the key.” He scurried off, leaving Mary in the shadows, her heart pounding.

  This was a stroke of — not good fortune, precisely, but intrigue. She tried to slow her racing mind. Conjecture was so often harmful. Her role here was simply to observe as attentively as possible and leave the interpretation until later.

  It was a surprisingly swift few minutes before a procession of three returned, led by Mr. Brooks, dignified in a woolen dressing gown and slippers, holding aloft a large candelabra. Behind him stalked a tall woman, also in a dressing gown, whose abundant chestnut hair trailed down her back in a loose braid: Honoria Dalrymple. They were tailed by the hapless footman who’d finished buttoning his jacket, although the buttons were misaligned. He carried a second candleholder with unsteady hands.

  Mr. Brooks opened the door with perfect sangfroid, as though the police commissioner had been expected all along. Before the commissioner could step forward, however, Honoria addressed him with considerable hauteur: “Her Majesty is asleep. You cannot possibly disturb her at this hour.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t appreciate the urgency of the situation, ma’am. We require an immediate audience with the queen.”

  “My instructions, Inspector —”

  “Commissioner.” The correction was polite but firm. This was a man unaccustomed to refusal.

  “Your pardon: Commissioner.” Honoria sounded arch, as though humoring a child. “My instructions remain unchanged: unless urgently summoned by the prime minister on a matter of national importance, the queen conducts all business at court, during the usual hours. She has the highest regard for the Metropolitan Police Service, and for that reason, she will, I feel confident in saying, agree to see you today.”

  “Mrs. Dalrymple, can I not impress upon you just how urgent this matter is? It involves the royal family in the most immediate way. It may even have repercussions for the queen herself.”

  Honoria opened her lips to answer but was interrupted by a new sound: a set of carriage wheels bumping across the cobblestones at a brisk pace. The carriage clattered to a stop and a brisk, middle-aged gentleman carrying a doctor’s bag sprang into view.

  “Where’s my patient, Commissioner?”

  “In my carriage. I thought that would be more comfortable for His Highness.”

  The physician vanished without a word.

  At the sight of Mr. William Lawrence, Her Majesty’s sergeant surgeon, Honoria’s face blanched. And with the commissioner’s reference to “His Highness,” she tottered visibly. “It’s —” She cleared her throat. “It’s — not — Prince Albert Edward, is it?”

  The police commissioner nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We summoned Mr. Lawrence directly, to save time.”

  “He is — seriously injured?” Honoria looked in danger of fainting, and the commissioner stepped forward as though in readiness to catch her. Immediately, she recoiled and pulled herself upright, flinching away from the policeman.

  “His life is not in danger.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “But we must speak with Her Majesty immediately.”

  Honoria pulled herself together with obvious effort. “If — if you would be so good as to wait here . . .” The voice contained only a shadow of its former arrogance.

  Mary waited with even less patience than the commissioner. What on earth could have happened to the merry, lazy, pleasure-loving Prince of Wales? Mary had only briefly glimpsed the young man, as she’d begun her work at the palace a few days before he returned to Oxford for his second term. The younger children seemed to adore him, though, begging him to play games with them all day long. When they misbehaved, he pleaded for clemency on their behalf. And while the queen and her husband lectured and admonished him almost hourly, there was no concealing their deep fondness for their eldest son. It was astounding to learn that such an affable scamp was, this minute, in the hands of Scotland Yard.

  “Would you be so kind as to clear the entranceway?” It was Mr. Lawrence’s voice again. To the policeman standing just behind the commissioner, he added, “Your assistance, sir, would be appreciated.”

  A moment later two police officers entered the hall, bearing between them the apparently unconscious figure of Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales. He was in evening dress, although much disheveled. Mary wondered whether this disarray was a result of medical attention or if he’d been picked up by the Yard in that condition. She saw Mr. Brooks’s nostrils twitch, very faintly, as the heir was borne past him and wondered what sort of malodor could cause the usually impeccable butler to react so.

  Within a few minutes, Honoria returned, looking about her for the missing Prince of Wales. When she spoke, her voice was tight. “Her Majesty will receive you in the Yellow Room. If you would be so kind as to follow me.”

  The invitation wasn’t for Mary. Nevertheless, she moved swiftly, keeping ahead of the small, grim delegation as they climbed the grand staircase toward the second floor. The Yellow Room, despite being the most intimate of the drawing rooms at the palace, was a vast, high-ceilinged apartment; she’d never overhear a thing unless she concealed herself inside. It was the riskiest option, of course, but tonight’s investigations had nothing to do with caution. In a few hours, she would leave the palace forever. And luck was with her tonight: Mr. Brooks must have unlocked the door, for when she tried the handle, it turned beneath her hand.

  The gas lamps were already hissing — Mr. Brooks again — and they defined the area in which the conversation would take place: two deep armchairs, arranged rather like a pair of throne chairs, facing an open space framed by a Persian rug. One of its silk tassels was ever so slightly disarranged — another subtle indication that even the butler, under his neutral facade, churned with anxiety tonight. She had just enough time to whirl behind a heavy curtain and ensure that its pleats remained perfectly regular before the door handle clicked again. Any footsteps were muffled by the silk carpets, but soon enough Mary heard Honoria’s voice, scarcely altered by the thick drapes. “Her Majesty will see you shortly.”

  They hadn’t long to wait. The queen was remarkably quick when occasion required, moving with a smooth rapidity that belied her short-legged bulk. Mary wished she could see Her Majesty now, as the door opened and closed once again. It was impossible, though, without disturbing the curtains and giving away her hiding place.

  “You bring news of the Prince of Wales,” were her first words, spoken in a clipped tone.

  “Your Majesty; Your Highness. I am Commissioner Russell, of the Metropolitan Police Service, and this is —”

  “We know who you are.” The voice was colder than the room. There came a pause. Then the queen continued, in a voice so different that Mary scarcely recognized it. “Where is my”— there was a barely repressed sob —“where is the Prince of Wales? Is he injured?”

  “But very slightly, ma’am: one or two bruises and a slight graze. The Prince of Wales is now resting safely in his apartment.”

  “His apartment here in the palace?”

  “Yes, ma’am. A doctor is with him.”

  “Then we shall go there. You may give us your news afterward.”

  “Your Majesty — if I may have just a moment, to explain what —”

  Queen Victoria interrupted the commissioner. “My eldest son is here, in highly irregular circumstances. You say he is well, yet you have summoned the s
ergeant surgeon to his bedside. Do not trifle with us further, Commissioner.”

  There was a tense silence. Mary imagined the policemen frozen with awe and frustration.

  And then a new voice spoke. “Her Majesty and I shall not be long,” said Prince Albert. As prince consort, the queen’s husband but not king in his own right, he had allowed his wife to take the lead. “But we must satisfy ourselves as to the Prince of Wales’s well-being.” His German accent sounded especially harsh — the only indication of the anxiety he, too, must have been feeling.

  There was a sweep of fabric, the click of a doorknob, and then the room fell silent. The commissioner heaved a gusty sigh. After a very long interval — perhaps ten minutes, in reality, although to Mary it felt several times that duration — the second man said, in a hesitant tone, “Shall I try to find the queen, sir?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “This news — it can’t wait much longer.”

  “And you propose to — what? Romp through the palace, calling out for Her Majesty? Tell her to hurry, as we’re on police business?”

  “N-no, sir.”

  “Then be silent. It is Her Majesty’s privilege to take all day, should she so desire.”

  But as Mary had witnessed during her service at Buckingham Palace, Queen Victoria seldom presumed upon her privileges. She was a dutiful, serious-minded monarch whose small frame contained apparently boundless self-discipline as long as she was on state business. This morning proved no exception. Within half an hour, she and the prince consort were back in the drawing room.

  “We appreciate your patience, Commissioner,” said His Highness. “Our minds are somewhat relieved to have seen the Prince of Wales, resting under Mr. Lawrence’s orders.”

  “Was it on your instruction that he was given a sedative?” asked the queen, a sharp note in her voice.

  “Our suggestion, Your Majesty,” said the commissioner in his humblest tones. “The prince was gravely upset and very emotional, I’m afraid. We were anxious that he should rest.”