The Traitor in the Tunnel Read online

  She sat up suddenly, fingertips tingling. She’d been blind — a fool — as bad as the queen herself, in failing to address facts. No, she’d been worse. She, of all people, ought to know that appearances could deceive, that things weren’t always as they seemed. How could she have assumed, like all those narrow-minded children of privilege, that Lang was guilty?

  Across the room, the lump that was Amy stirred and mumbled something. Mary sprang out of bed. She would have to investigate. Uncover the truth. And, possibly, fight to save an innocent man.

  A man who might be her father.

  Miss Scrimshaw’s Academy for Girls looked much like every other house on Acacia Road: a large, redbrick villa with a high, wrought-iron fence about the perimeter. It was a girls’ school in the usual sense, with teachers and pupils and lessons and meals. Slightly less usual was its approach. It selected girls carefully, charging no fees for their education. And its philosophy was, in many senses, revolutionary. It taught that women were more than domestic angels and helpmeets, and prepared its pupils for lives of independence and dignified, skilled work.

  But it was the attic at Miss Scrimshaw’s that held its most incendiary secret: an all-female intelligence agency that used the stereotype of the harmless, weak-minded woman to its advantage. The Agency placed spies in settings unthinkable for men — kitchen sculleries, ladies’ boudoirs, positions as governesses. Its successes were formidable. Twenty-two months after being admitted to its ranks, Mary was still amazed by her good fortune.

  Today, however, she let herself in at the gate with a sense of unease. The visit she really needed to pay lay in a different direction. Scotland Yard was holding Lang Jin Hai at the Tower of London — a location that filled Mary with superstitious dread. It was a legendary jail, the sort of place one associated with traitors of the highest order. It even had an access gate into the Thames known as the Traitors’ Gate, for all those who had passed through it. She hadn’t the faintest idea how one went about visiting prisoners in jail, let alone at the Tower. And even if she had, she was far from ready to face this man who might be her father. Almost anything — even diving into the Thames — seemed easier.

  A more appealing, if cowardly, prospect was trying to help him from afar. Yet here was another fine mess. She’d only just been recalled from the assignment (complete with that strange proviso “little danger”), only to find that she desperately needed to stay. How else could she monitor the case against Lang Jin Hai and the royal family’s role in it? Remaining on the case was her only chance of overhearing further discussions between the queen and Scotland Yard. Yet Anne and Felicity did nothing lightly. They would require a great deal of persuasion to let her stay on, even in this puzzling absence of danger.

  Mary stopped, drew a steadying breath, and resolved to do only what was necessary on this case without letting her emotions overtake her. To solve the mysterious thefts from the palace. To do all she could for Lang, while preserving her distance. And, most important, to keep her mixed-race parentage a secret. It was too complicated. Certain to mark her out as different. Foreign. Tainted. It was a hindrance and a handicap, when all she wanted was to blend in — with the outside world, but especially here.

  She walked past the front door and round the side of the building to the Agency’s private entrance. She was expected. Only a moment after her coded knock, a thin, bespectacled woman opened the narrow door.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Treleaven.”

  Anne’s watchful gray eyes scanned her face. “Good afternoon, my dear.” She indicated the stairs. “After you.”

  Mary felt a sudden impulse to throw herself into Anne’s arms, weeping — as though a childish confession would right everything that was wrong in her life! — and she had to restrain herself with real effort before climbing the narrow, four-story staircase to the attic.

  The Agency’s office looked more like a teachers’ common room than a secret headquarters: slightly shabby, with an assortment of mismatched chairs and sofas salvaged over the years. There was the usual tea tray, the brightly polished lamps, and — very happily — a blazing fire.

  As Mary entered the room, Felicity Frame turned expectantly. Her eyes widened at Mary’s muddy, bedraggled state. “My dear, all this way on foot? Most unnecessary.”

  “I needed the walk, Mrs. Frame,” explained Mary. She was always slightly shy of Felicity’s beauty and rather theatrical manner. “And I don’t mind the rain.”

  Something glinted in Felicity’s eye — Mary was almost certain she would ask an uncomfortable question — but she said only, “As you prefer.”

  “Sit by the fire,” said Anne, closing the door quietly behind her. “You’ll soon dry.” She took one of the two chairs facing Mary, while Felicity remained standing. It was an awkward arrangement, but neither woman seemed aware of it.

  There was a strange, hesitant silence. Mary finally broke it, saying, “I was surprised to receive your message.”

  Anne nodded. “It’s a highly irregular situation. I should like first to emphasize that it has nothing to do with your performance on the case.”

  A weight she hadn’t quite realized she carried was plucked from Mary’s chest, and she breathed a little more deeply. “That is a relief.”

  “In fact, it’s a damn shame you’re so set on recalling her,” said Felicity in a velvety but definitely combative tone.

  Anne blinked rapidly — a sign of irritation, Mary knew from experience. “Let us explain the situation first, before entering into reproaches and fantasies.”

  Felicity smiled, her eyes holding a complex blend of triumph and anger. “The explanation is simple enough, my dear.” It was unclear whether “my dear” referred to Anne or to Mary. “As you know, London’s entire drainage system is to be repaired and rebuilt. This includes the ancient sewers beneath Buckingham Palace, which, according to my contacts at Westminster, are in exceedingly poor condition. I’ve learned from these same sources the name of the firm engaged to perform these urgent and highly confidential repairs. It is —”

  Mary eyed her with disbelief. She wasn’t going to say . . . Oh, God, anything but this.

  “Easton Engineering.”

  Mary stared at Felicity for a long moment, willing that name unsaid. Her cheeks, forehead, even the tips of her ears, were scorching hot, which meant that she was blushing furiously. Her heart kicked wildly against her rib cage. Her throat seemed too small. It was preposterous. A prank. Utterly ludicrous, to think that in a city of a million souls, she should keep crossing paths with this one man. She’d never believe it in fiction.

  “You see why we were forced to recall you,” said Anne, “despite the definite disadvantage it represents to our case. We shall have to place a new operative and start the process again. And we shall have to explain this to our client, of course.”

  Mary stopped herself from nodding along with Anne’s all-too-reasonable logic. Her mind was still spinning, and she said the first thing that came to mind. “Easton Engineering is a small firm. Why were they chosen, above all others?”

  Felicity nodded. “You’re correct; they are certainly not the obvious choice, and a number of more established firms would feel their noses out of joint about the appointment — if they knew of it, of course.”

  Mary fought the urge to bury her face in her hands. “It’s a secret appointment?”

  “Yes, because the work itself is a security risk. Mr. Easton’s work at St. Stephen’s Tower this past summer must have impressed the Chief Commissioner of Public Works, for it was at his particular urging that palace officials engaged the firm.”

  “I don’t suppose it’s George Easton who’s leading this project,” said Mary without conviction.

  “It’s the younger Mr. Easton,” said Felicity with some satisfaction. “‘James’ to you, I believe.”

  Mary promptly blushed again, even more hotly than before. “No longer,” she said — almost snapping, so vehement was her need to establish this fact. “I’ve not
hing to do with him now.”

  Felicity merely smiled in a maddening fashion.

  “So the sewers must connect with the public drainage system,” said Mary wildly. Anything to get Felicity off this topic.

  “Yes — hence the delicacy of the task,” said Anne. She spoke quietly and rapidly, and without glancing in Felicity’s direction. “Obviously, it wouldn’t do for all and sundry to learn of the existence of these sewers. However, the sewers are in very poor condition — downright dangerous, according to our source. If allowed to collapse, they would not only dam the flow of an underground river, but undermine the foundations of the palace itself.”

  Mary nodded. “So if the work is being performed under such secret conditions, surely there’s no danger of my encountering him?”

  Felicity nodded. “True enough; they’d hardly announce it to all the staff.” She glanced at Anne. “I rather thought the recall was an overreaction.”

  “They’d be working underground,” continued Mary. “Most of my duties are carried out within a single wing of the palace. The chances of our meeting are almost negligible.” She was talking to convince herself as much as her managers.

  “I don’t like it,” said Anne. “A single coincidence — Mary runs an errand, or Mr. Easton steps outside for a breath of fresh air — could destroy the entire ca —”

  “Even if they did meet,” said Felicity, suddenly leaning forward and fixing Mary with her green-eyed gaze, “would that be so terrible? On that murder case at Big Ben, you managed a chance encounter without destroying your cover.”

  “All the more reason we mustn’t rely on good fortune to preserve our secrecy!” Anne never, ever snapped; she spoke in even, measured tones that were a model of sangfroid. But now, her tone was so unusually vehement that Mary stared at her, speechless.

  Felicity, however, only smiled. “Temper, Anne.”

  Anne swiveled her neck and glared at Felicity. “If you must press your private agenda so openly, Felicity, you might at least take into consideration the safety of our agents. Or is even that too much to expect of you now?”

  “Oh, come, now — a chance encounter with James Easton will compromise Mary’s safety? Such paranoia and subterfuge are beneath you, Anne.”

  “Wait!” Mary shot to her feet, so anxious was she to stop the argument. “So the recall isn’t absolute? You’ve not decided precisely what ought to happen?”

  “Recalling you was my idea,” admitted Anne.

  “So much for joint decision making,” grumbled Felicity.

  “Because there are new developments — not directly related to the case, but with dramatic personal significance for the royal family — that you ought to know, before making a final decision.” Mary spoke rapidly, trying to measure the effect of her words on the two women. Although she’d caught their interest, they were still staring at each other, engaged in a separate, private contest that she didn’t fully understand.

  She pushed on, nevertheless, and informed them of the previous night’s events — of everything, of course, except her possible connection to Lang Jin Hai. As she spoke, she felt their interest gradually — inevitably — turning toward her. She kept her voice low, her language matter-of-fact, but it was a sensational tale nonetheless. Scandal! Murder! Treason! Cover-up! It was the sort of story that couldn’t be dully told — and a vein of intelligence that, Mary realized with a flash of triumph, the Agency couldn’t afford to bypass.

  “What if,” she concluded, “I were to inform Mr. Easton, in advance, of my presence? That way, in the unlikely event that we were to meet, he would be prepared. That would help to reduce my risk.”

  “It would reduce the risk,” agreed Anne, reluctance and interest clearly warring within her. “But not as much as removing yourself entirely.”

  “Contacting James Easton,” murmured Felicity. “I thought you’d no interest in meeting him again?”

  Mary swallowed hard. After her last interview with James — the way he’d refused to look at her when she’d told him of her criminal past — she’d sworn to put him from her mind. That was what she’d told Anne and Felicity, and what she’d instructed herself, too. But here he was again. She’d have to deal with him, in the Agency’s best interests. Wouldn’t she? She’d learned and changed a great deal over the past seven months. Hardly felt the scars of the wounds he’d caused. Didn’t she?

  “What are you thinking?” asked Anne suddenly. “There is more at stake for you here than simply the Agency’s interests.”

  Anne was terrifyingly close to the truth. Mary squashed down the rising sense of panic in her chest and forced herself to answer. “Placing a new agent on the case would set the Agency back several weeks at least,” she said slowly. “But you’re correct. My concern is this: I needn’t tell you what public opinion is right now against the Chinese. It’s all around us, every time we open a certain type of newspaper. In the current climate, I worry that because the accused is a Lascar, he’ll be the victim of a hasty show trial. The queen and prince consort seem less concerned with the general principle of justice here and more anxious to protect their son. That is natural enough, but it is not right. If I stay on at the palace, I may be able to gather information that would offer a clearer view of this man’s role in Beaulieu-Buckworth’s death.”

  Anne and Felicity both listened, thoughtful, grave, patient. They’d forgotten their earlier dispute and were now simply listening to her — something they’d both always been good at. Anne was staring into the fire, its flames bright in the glass of her spectacles. Felicity was focused on Mary herself, an inscrutable expression on her beautiful face.

  Mary willed herself not to blush, even as she felt the blood rising in her throat, her cheeks. No one ever thought she looked Chinese; not Caucasians, at any rate. Occasionally, a Chinese person might peer at her curiously, somehow alerted to her secret — something in the geometry of her features, the creases of her eyelids. But Mary passed, for the most part, as a slightly exotic-looking Englishwoman. Strangers often asked if she had French, Spanish, or Portuguese blood; Italian was a popular choice right now because Garibaldi’s triumphant progress was always in the news. But her answer —“black Irish”— was always persuasive, always enough. She hoped it would continue to be, especially now. “These are the principles you taught me — the importance of justice, and even of second chances for those who never had a decent first chance. It’s because of what I learned from you that I need to stay on the case.”

  The moment passed.

  Felicity blinked.

  Anne smiled. “You’ve learned the lessons of the Academy well, my dear. The marginal figure — be it child, woman, or foreigner — is always disadvantaged in our society. It is admirable of you to wish to investigate further, and I find it a sufficiently compelling reason for you to stay on this case.”

  “Thank you, Miss Treleaven. Might the Agency also provide some information about Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth? I think a little background research would be useful. For example, knowing to whom he is related. All those aristocratic families are so intermarried. He might be connected to the royal family, through some fifth cousin three times removed.”

  Felicity nodded. “That’s not so easily done, but it’s possible.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But returning to the original case,” said Anne. “Have you anything at all to report?”

  “No, Miss Treleaven.”

  Anne’s eyebrows rose very slightly. “Still nothing?”

  “The domestic staff was never informed of the original thefts, lest it encourage gossip. I’ve not observed anyone behaving suspiciously or flush with cash. Until the thief acts again, I can do no more than observe unexpected changes.”

  Anne nodded. “I see. Well, perhaps a little more time will give the thief the confidence to begin again. But without more evidence, this case may well go unsolved.”

  “Let us hope not,” grumbled Felicity. “It’s terribly unsatisfying.”

 
; “Not to mention bad for our statistics.” The two managers smiled at each other fleetingly, and Mary felt a sudden, lovely wave of relief. Anne and Felicity were all right, then. Perhaps they’d simply been under a great deal of strain lately. Likely she’d read too much into the tension, the disagreements. All colleagues disagreed sometimes, especially when their work was as intense and important as that of the Agency.

  Yes. That was surely all.

  Her old bedroom had the thick, dusty smell of a place long abandoned. Mary glanced about the space, which was scarcely big enough to hold a single bed, a tiny wardrobe, and a narrow writing table and chair. This room had been hers for years. She knew its every detail — the angled ceiling, the tall, narrow window — better than those of her childhood home. Yet each time she came back from a job, the room seemed unfamiliar. It always took her some time to readjust, to become herself again. She disliked this sense of dislocation and for that reason seldom visited her room while on assignment. Today, Mary almost tiptoed across its length. The desk chair creaked slightly as she sat, and that was new. It was cold in the room, and a thin layer of frost glazed the inside of the window. It certainly didn’t feel like home.

  No matter. She opened her desk — it was one of the schoolroom sort, with a hinged lid — and looked at the neat nothingness within. Two pens. A bottle of ink. Some blank notepaper, its edges slightly curled from disuse. No mementos, no treasured letters, no girlish diary — nothing personal at all. It was a clean slate that suited her job, and also her status as a lost person. A reformed housebreaker, rescued by Anne and Felicity. An orphan — perhaps.