A Spy in the House Page 7

  “Here, before you go, tell me what you think of this!” George scrabbled about in a desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of lavender notepaper decorated with flowers.

  James took the page and scanned it. “Would you like my honest opinion?”

  George’s face dimmed. “That bad, eh? It’s bloody hard work rhyming the name Angelica, you know.”

  James took pity on him. “I’ll write you a better poem.” But poem or no poem, he added mentally, you’re not marrying into a family of crooks.

  Tuesday, 11 May

  “Hoy!”

  James didn’t react to the first bellow. Adams, the foreman, tended to be excitable.

  “M’sr Eas’n!”

  That, however, he couldn’t really ignore. James mopped his forehead and the back of his neck and turned reluctantly to investigate the most recent catastrophe that had befallen the building site. This job — the construction of a new tunnel beneath the Thames — had been a headache from the day they’d begun. It should already have been completed. Now the blinding stench of the river threatened to prolong it even more, as many of his best workers were fearful of catching disease from the evil smell. James wasn’t convinced that the stink itself made one ill, but he’d still sent the workers home yesterday because they were retching too violently to work safely. If this weather continued, they’d have to work by night. It was either that or postpone the project until the autumn.

  “I dream of the day,” said James as he located the senior foreman, “that you address me as something other than ‘Hoy.’”

  Adams grinned and shoved his cap back on his head. “I b’lieve I called you ‘oi’ the other day, sir.”

  “And what is this?” He motioned to the scrawny little boy Adams held by the throat, muddy boots dangling in midair.

  “This here lad —”

  “Is strangling. Set him down.”

  Adams dropped the boy abruptly but kept a firm grip on his shoulder. “He’s trespassing. He won’t go away! I turned the little bugger out not ten minutes ago, and now it’s back. Shall I chuck it in the river, sir?”

  The boy drew breath to defend himself and immediately launched into a coughing fit that doubled him over. When he straightened, eyes watering, he turned to James. “Message for Mr. Easton, sir.”

  “That’s what he keeps saying, but he won’t give anyone the message! Says he has to speak with you, personal.” Adams sounded irritated.

  James sighed. “Go on, then.”

  The boy had regained some of his breath. “It’s about —” he hesitated and looked at Adams suspiciously — “about that job in Chelsea, sir.”

  There was no job in Chelsea. James narrowed his eyes. “Chelsea.”

  “The house, sir.”

  Oh, good God. This was what came of hiring off-duty coppers to watch the Thorold house: they farmed the work out to little boys for a pittance of the fee he’d paid them to do the job properly. He should have known.

  “Oh — that job.” James nodded to Adams and beckoned the boy to follow him. As they strolled round the perimeter of the site, he looked sharply at the lad. “How old are you?”

  “Ten, sir.”

  Old enough to be working, then. “How did you find me?”

  “Didn’t think I would, sir. Inspector Furley said something about a tunnel under the river, but he’s dead drunk, and I thought he was talking rubbish again,” the lad said, rubbing his nose energetically. “I wouldn’t have come to you direct, but it’s a matter of urgency. I take full responsibility, sir.”

  Despite his irritation with Furley, James was tickled by the boy’s manner. “Well, then — give me your news.”

  The boy’s narrative was clear and swift. The young lady he was assigned to watch had left the house at half past nine and taken a hackney cab to the customs house, where she sat watching its doors. After a quarter of an hour, Mr. Thorold emerged and melted away into the crowds. Instead of following him, however, she dismissed the cab and entered the building.

  James frowned. “How did you follow her?”

  “On the back of her cab, sir.”

  A grubby boy hitching a ride on the back of a cab — it was a common sight. “Good. What time was this?”

  “Quarter of an hour ago, sir, p’raps a touch more. I watched the door for a few minutes, but she didn’t come out. Since it’s so close by, and p’raps a longish visit, since she paid off the driver, I thought you’d like to know.”

  James blinked in surprise. “Good thinking, er . . .”

  “Quigley, sir. Alfred Quigley.”

  “Right. A sound morning’s work.” James tossed the boy a crown and turned on his heel. Then he paused and looked back at the boy. “Er — Quigley.”

  “Sir?”

  “I won’t be able to observe the lady all day. Follow me, and continue to watch her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And from now on, you report directly to me.”

  The boy’s eyes widened slightly. “What about Inspector Furley, sir?”

  “I’ll sort things with him. From now on, you’re on my team.”

  James’s timing — or rather, Alfred Quigley’s timing — was excellent: his hackney cab drew up outside the gates of the customs house just in time to see a familiar figure emerge from the heavy double-fronted doors. She was heavily veiled and dressed even more plainly than usual, but he recognized her by the brisk certainty of her movements. With a light step, she let herself out through the gate and hailed a passing cab.

  Feeling rather foolish, James muttered to his driver, “Follow that cab.”

  The cabman guffawed. “I’ve heard that one before, guv.”

  The roads were choked with people, animals, and rubbish of every sort, and it took a full quarter of an hour just to reach the end of the street. But the driver followed her through the chaos and finally over the Thames at London Bridge into Southwark.

  The cabs drew up near the West India Dock, and James watched her emerge, glance around, then step down to complete her journey on foot. He watched from the privacy of his vehicle for a minute or two as her progress was slowed by her obvious desire to keep her skirts out of the muck. She kept them raised as high as decency permitted, to the tops of her narrow buttoned boots. Although it was midday, a moderate layer of fog blanketed the streets. As she disappeared into its depths, James calmly paid his driver, tilted the brim of his hat low over the eyes, and stepped down. There was no need to rush; he knew precisely where she was going.

  Just round the corner, the warehouses of the merchant trading company Thorold & Company occupied half an acre of reclaimed marshland on the south bank of the Thames. The red brick buildings were squat and square, with tall, narrow windows. They were likely only a couple of decades old but were already clad in a thick layer of dark grime.

  Keeping back a bit, James leaned against a streetlamp — burning in a futile attempt to light the fog — and watched her pace slow even more as she neared the main entrance to the warehouses. She kept her veil down, but her head was turned toward the buildings.

  What the devil was she after?

  The area was busy enough — the movements and cries of errand boys, vagrants, a match girl, dock laborers, sailors ashore, men in tweed suits, and the odd early prostitute made it easy for him to watch her — but it was hardly a place for a lady. Especially one without a servant hovering two steps behind. Even with her veil lowered, she was attracting looks and the occasional remark. If she came to a halt, she would be harassed. James might be forced to go to her rescue. He wondered whether he would oblige.

  Immediately after their encounter in Thorold’s study, he’d begun inquiries about her. Although he was new to this cloak and dagger business, he did have some contacts. All he’d learned was that she had previously been a junior teacher in a girl’s school, and before that, a student there. The school apparently took a lot of charity girls, and she seemed to have been one of them. At least he had not been able to discover family members or
someone who’d paid her fees. The trail ended there. Miss Quinn had no friends outside the school, no one she visited regularly, and no other connections.

  If anything, those few details were more perplexing than ever. Last night, he’d stayed up late, unable to sleep, staring at the meager details of her life: Mary Quinn, schoolteacher and paid companion. Date of birth: unknown. Birthplace: unknown. Parentage: unknown. Childhood: unknown. It was preposterous. According to his source, more information ought to be available, even concerning orphans raised by the parish. Either the girl was a spectacularly neglected orphan or she was living under a false name. Neither possibility made much sense.

  James studied her as she inspected the warehouses. Her prim garments and graceful movements didn’t suggest criminality or guilt. Yes, he knew that appearances were sometimes deceiving and that the mildest features could mask cruelty or vice. But he found it difficult to believe that she was an ordinary thief or an aspiring blackmailer — or Thorold’s mistress. Lying awake in bed last night, he’d considered one preposterous scenario after another: she was Thorold’s illegitimate child, searching for evidence of the inheritance Thorold had stolen from her, or an innocent girl forced (by whom? Gray?) into searching the office or . . .

  Mary crossed the street and continued to walk slowly near the Thorold compound. She seemed to be examining the high iron fence, topped with spikes, which ran round the perimeter of the property. Her innocence was looking more improbable by the minute. James knew that his own actions were suspicious, of course. But his motives were straightforward enough.

  He knew full well what he ought to do: forget about her, except when her actions affected his own quest. He knew, equally well, what he ought not do: he ought not waste his time — and lose sleep — wondering about her motives. He ought not worry about the dangers to which she might expose herself. He ought not waste time bandying words with her when he called on Angelica. And he most certainly ought not admire the slim elegance of her figure just a hundred yards ahead of him.

  Certainly not the last.

  And speaking of wasting time . . . he consulted his pocket watch. He’d now seen what Mary was up to, if not why, and he had to meet with a client in half an hour. James inclined his head slightly and stopped at a quiet street corner.

  Mary drifted slowly from view.

  “Sir?” Alfred Quigley popped up.

  “Report to me this evening at my office. I shall be there until eight o’clock.” He murmured the address.

  Quigley nodded once and skipped off, immediately losing himself in the throng.

  At seven o’clock the same evening, James was the last man at work at his offices in Great George Street. He generally was, although this evening he was distracted and unproductive. He had just resolved for the ninth time to stop thinking about Mary Quinn when a light scratching at the door made his head snap up. “Enter.”

  Alfred Quigley slid noiselessly into the room. “Evening, Mr. Easton.”

  “Well, Quigley?”

  The lad’s report was straightforward enough. Miss Quinn spent another ten minutes casing the warehouse grounds, then took an omnibus back toward town. She stopped on the way in Clerkenwell and purchased a number of items, including several yards of strong rope and some boys’ clothing, paying cash for these items. Alighting again in Bond Street, she bought some ribbons and silk thread, which were charged to the Thorolds’ account. The rest of her day was spent indoors.

  James’s expression darkened as he listened to Quigley’s report. “What do you suppose she intends doing with this rope and costume?”

  “Seems like she wants to get into the warehouse, sir. Although it’s an unusual lady who can tie knots and things.”

  “Indeed.”

  He brooded for a few minutes longer. The silence was broken only by Quigley’s attempt to stifle a yawn.

  “I’m keeping you,” James said abruptly. “You’d best get home and to sleep.”

  “D’you need me to watch the lady tonight, sir?” It was a heroic offer: his eyes were nearly crossed with fatigue.

  “No. I’ll go.” James paused. The boy was only ten. “Do you have far to go home?”

  “No, sir. I live with my mother nearby, in Church Street.”

  “Good. We’ll speak tomorrow.”

  As Quigley disappeared, James’s conscience jabbed him again.

  “Quigley!”

  “Sir?”

  “Have you eaten?” Good Lord, he was turning into a nursemaid.

  A broad grin appeared on Quigley’s small, freckled face. It was the first truly boyish expression he’d displayed. “Eel pie and mash. They was beautiful, sir.”

  It was a quarter to one when Mary arrived at the warehouses of Thorold & Company for the second time that day. The street seemed still and vacant except for a couple of vagrants she’d passed curled up in doorways for a fitful night’s sleep. Proper darkness never really fell on this part of London. The river reflected a great deal of light from the moon, domestic fires, and street lanterns, although this in turn was smothered by the dense fog. Tonight, Southwark was in the clutches of a pea-souper so thick it was like a physical presence. When, as an experiment, Mary held out her hand at arm’s length, her fingers looked ghostly and not quite solid.

  It was more than five years since she’d worn boys’ clothing. She’d almost forgotten how comfortable and practical trousers were. And with her cap pulled low over her eyes, the cabman hadn’t betrayed a flicker of interest in her destination or her purpose. He’d been more worried about whether she could afford the fare. Once the investigation was finished, she would have to do this again just for fun — although she could do without the trespassing and the stinking river.

  For now, though, she needed to stay focused on finding the evidence. Thus far, she’d spent exactly one week with the Thorolds and had absolutely nothing to show for it. With the case closing in six days’ time, she had to come up with something to help the Agency solve the case — didn’t she? She’d debated the point with herself all day. Her original orders were only to watch and listen. Technically. But Anne and Felicity had good reasons for posting her within the household. It wasn’t as though she was acting from personal nosiness or a desire to compete with the primary agent; she had the Agency’s interests in mind. And she couldn’t contribute if she didn’t act. After all, what good was an agent who knew nothing, heard nothing, did nothing, and failed to use her brains?

  That, at least, was what she’d been telling her conscience all day. Now it was too late to dither.

  Shrugging off a lingering sense of being watched, she sidled up to the iron fence and experimentally inserted her head between the bars. It was a tight fit, but just about possible. In her days as a housebreaker, one of her mottoes had been, “Where the head will go, the body will follow.” She dropped her bag of equipment through the bars and waited. If a guard dog was on the prowl, it would shortly make itself known.

  A minute passed. Nothing . . . except that nagging suspicion that she was not quite alone. She spun round: still nothing, of course. Ninny. With a swipe at her perspiring forehead, Mary squeezed through the bars with a slight grunt of discomfort. “Where the head will go . . .” In those days, she’d been flat-chested.

  The cobblestones in the courtyard were slick. She found her equipment and picked her way carefully through the yard, alert for voices and footsteps. At the main building, someone had left the door near the loading bay unlocked. Honestly! Thorold needed better security. Mary realized that her uneasiness had vanished; if anything, she was enjoying herself. Her senses were heightened. A surge of exhilaration sped through her veins that had nothing to do with the justice or value of her enterprise and everything to do with being on the prowl once more. She’d lost sight of the pure, concentrated thrill of danger until now.

  She eased inside, into tarry blackness. Bereft of vision, other senses slowly took its place. The quality of the silence was cavernous — even without a sound to create an ech
o, she knew the room was vast. It smelled of sawdust and salt, of pitch and resin. The floorboards were rough planks, gritty with sand and grime.

  In the dark, it was easier to crawl than to walk. On all fours, she crossed that enormous floor, moving slowly and cautiously from pallet to pallet, all stacked high with crates. The gargantuan proportions of the room were confusing: when she reached the standard-size door at the other end, it felt oddly miniaturized. This one was locked, but with a lock so simple Mary had to smile. Why bother?

  She eased the door open a crack and listened again. A faint shuffling sound resolved itself into footsteps. Pressing the door closed again, Mary flattened herself against the wall, keeping her ear by the keyhole, her breathing slow and shallow.

  A sentry, trudging.

  Coming to a halt just outside her door. The bright glow of his lantern cast a little beam of yellow light through the keyhole.

  A sigh.

  A pause.

  A fart.

  And then the footsteps receded.

  She waited an additional three minutes, then slowly opened the door a fraction. Pale illumination came from a series of skylights cut into the roof of the building, revealing a broad flight of stairs. The moon was asserting itself, even through the fog.

  Mary stayed close to the walls, testing each tread for creaks before placing her full weight on it. It was slow going. When she finally reached the top floor, she glided past the smaller doors toward the end of the hall. The imposing mahogany door at the end was obviously what she wanted. The brass nameplate confirmed it: H. Thorold, Esq. With a smile, she gently touched the doorknob. Locked, of course.