The Traitor in the Tunnel Page 8

  Holding her candle aloft, Honoria began to look about — not suspiciously, but with earnest inquiry. The upper halves of each wall were fitted with open shelves where less frequently used equipment — jelly molds, especially large basins — were stored. Below were cupboards that held, presumably, the dried herbs and other goods. Her large, elegant hands skimmed the shelves and she peered into cupboards as though searching for just the right cake tin. It was a most unlikely sight.

  Honoria searched methodically from left to right, from top to bottom. When she reached a small cupboard in the darkest corner, she paused, her sudden stillness as clear as any announcement. She selected a small jug — it was glazed white earthenware, with a scene painted on it in blue — and, holding her candle closer, peered at the shelf on which it had stood. The candle’s wick was long, and it produced a high, bright flame that illuminated her features beautifully. Mary was surprised to realize that Honoria Dalrymple was a handsome woman — at least while her features were lit with excitement and anticipation, as they now were. Whatever she’d sought was very near. She smiled — a feline look of satisfaction.

  Mary took three careful steps back around the nearest corner, preparing to retrace her steps with some speed. Once Honoria had her prize, she would leave as swiftly as possible, and the last place Mary wanted to be was in her path. Such caution had its difficulties: she could no longer see what Honoria was doing. She heard a distinct click, and then a low scraping sound, rather as though something heavy was being dragged over flagstones.

  Honoria took two audible steps, then gave a sudden, high gasp. Mary tensed, ready either to fly or to confront her. There came that scraping sound once more, punctuated by a second metallic click. Time slowed in inverse relation to Mary’s wild impatience, and she strained her ears for more information. Yet as the seconds crawled past, she heard nothing more. Incredible as it seemed, the room fell still and quiet. The perfect silence was marred only by the faint sounds of mice scurrying in the kitchens’ deepest recesses. Mary waited ten seconds, and then another ten. This might well be a trap. If Honoria suspected she was being watched, this was a classic strategy for flushing out an inept follower. Only after a full five minutes did Mary feel secure enough to inch forward again, moving slowly and poised to freeze at any moment. When she gained the corner, she took a moment to focus, to listen with renewed attention to the peculiar stillness of the room. Then, taking a smooth, quiet breath, she peered round the corner — to discover the impossible.

  Honoria Dalrymple was gone.

  Mary blinked, reluctant to believe the evidence of her senses. Honoria was a tall woman — not the sort who could tuck herself neatly into a cupboard. Yet the herbarium was undeniably empty. There was only one logical explanation, and Mary approached it with caution. She knew about secret doors, of course — there was one in the attic of the Agency, for heaven’s sake, that had impressed her no end when she’d first been recruited. Yet it seemed far-fetched in this context.

  In grand houses of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it was not uncommon to have a “priest hole”— a specially built hiding place for persecuted Roman Catholic priests. But Buckingham Palace was a new palace, and Queen Victoria the first monarch to use it as her official residence. Even these kitchens, original and unmodified, were only a hundred and fifty years old — nearly new, in comparison with most other palaces and châteaux. So an old-fashioned escape route — built in times of religious conflict and dire need — was impossible. Yet there Mary stood, in the herbarium, very much alone.

  With a careful, light touch, Mary found the shelf that had so fascinated Honoria, and the blue-and-white jug she’d inspected. It was a coarse piece of pottery — the type used for food preparation, but never service, in a house as grand as this. Without more light, she couldn’t decipher the scene, but surely it wasn’t the jug that had caused that clicking sound. The jug was merely a signal, a place marker. She lifted it carefully from the shelf, noting its precise angle and placement. One had to assume that everything was a snare. The shelf was unpainted wood, somewhat dusty — another potential trap, Mary realized, since it would render visible even the slightest touch. Yet Honoria had already disturbed the shelf. It was worth the risk.

  She felt about delicately, unsure of what she was seeking. But the instant her fingertips met something sharp and metallic — colder than bare wood — she smiled. It was a latch, invisibly mounted at the very edge of the shelf. In her experience, that meant a simple sort of door — nothing that would fool a team of professionals out for blood, but a concealed entrance all the same.

  She pressed gently against the shelf. Nothing.

  But when she pulled it toward her instead, she immediately felt it give. It was only a small shift — a fraction of an inch — but it moved, all the same. Mary’s pulse, already rapid, leaped so strongly that she felt it throb in each fingertip, in her throat. A secret door in Buckingham Palace! And Honoria Dalrymple had just walked through it. She controlled a ferocious impulse to dash after her in pursuit. Not now, when she hadn’t a clue, or even a candle. Mary replaced the blue-and-white jug with care, turned, and left the kitchens.

  Five minutes later, she was properly equipped: coatless and wearing soft-soled shoes, carrying a candle, a box of lucifers and her hairpin lock pick. As she went back down the service stairs, with more than usual care, a distant clock struck midnight. It was early yet, she told herself, trying to contain her sudden simmering anticipation at the prospect of adventure. It was quite likely that Honoria would remain behind the secret door for some time. She couldn’t just blunder in. She would have to improvise. Yet that was one of the things that made her happiest, and so it was with a very real lightening of spirit, if not physical discomfort, that Mary settled in to wait at the other end of the kitchens near the larder.

  It was a deeply familiar situation — sitting on her haunches, in the dark. She’d spent countless hours on “watch training” at the Agency, learning to maintain her sense of time’s passing without even the skies for reference, remaining alert but not overfocused, keeping her limbs from falling asleep without the privilege of movement. It was, on the surface, a simple matter but one she had struggled with. Her propensity was either to remain so furiously alert and still that she found her joints stiff and seized just when she most needed them or to ponder the possibilities of each case so intently that she lost track of time. As Anne and Felicity noted, she was a creature of extremes.

  Neither of these occurred tonight. Instead, she committed a new and astonishing error: falling into a daydream. It was something she’d never done before, and something she’d never quite understood. It had always seemed impossible to become so distracted in uncomfortable, high-tension situations where nearly all questions remained unresolved. But this evening, Mary was a few miles and many years away, sifting through fragmented memories of Limehouse and her father, when she became aware of the scraping sound of the hidden door. She started and, compounding her error, gasped slightly.

  There was a second gasp, like a magnified echo of her own. Then, Honoria’s voice: “Who’s there?”

  Mary was instantly awake and furious with herself. However, there was nothing to do but remain perfectly still and silent.

  “I know you’re there,” said Honoria after another pause. Bold words, but her voice was higher and thinner than usual.

  Mary’s tension eased a fraction. Fear was good — for her, at least. The next few seconds must have stretched endlessly for Honoria, but Mary’s internal clock was working once again. She heard an uncertain shuffle, and then another. Impossible to know in which direction.

  “Show yourself, if you’re there,” said Honoria, and this time her voice held a distinct quaver.

  Perhaps half a minute ticked silently past. She could see little of Honoria — primarily the dazzle of her candle, and her general shape behind that. But she was safe enough: as long as Honoria continued to hold that candle at arm’s length, all beyond it would appear b
lack. And even if she extinguished her flame, Mary would have time to move away silently before Honoria’s eyes adjusted. So Mary remained poised but relaxed now and waited for Honoria to act.

  The lady-in-waiting hesitated a minute longer. Took a half step, as though to investigate. Mary tensed, readying herself for action. But after another pause, Honoria turned on her heel and hurried away. She had sounded thoroughly rattled. And she was snooping about a part of the palace she’d no business being in, going through concealed doorways. Mary wondered, again, about Honoria Dalrymple’s position within the ranks of the ladies-in-waiting and made a note to check with the Agency about her history. Come to think of it, they’d not yet supplied information about Honoria’s possible connection to Beaulieu-Buckworth, either. . . .

  When Honoria’s footsteps had receded and she was definitely alone once more, Mary moved decisively toward the secret door. She loved these moments, when endless possibilities of action and adventure stretched before her. It was tempting to savor them, to play at heightening her suspense. But this wasn’t a game, and she, like Honoria, was trespassing. They both risked severe punishment if caught, although it was a fine debate as to which was the graver penalty: social disgrace for a lady-in-waiting or loss of livelihood for a housemaid.

  Mary shook her head, both figuratively and literally. She was wasting time. And, she reminded herself sternly, it was possible that nothing of real interest lay behind that secret door. Neat rows of jams and pickles, perhaps. Or a child’s play closet. Yet even as her fingers found the catch, she didn’t really believe that.

  The door swung open with a faint creak. A new smell, thin and cold and sharp, filled her nostrils. This was a surprise — she’d expected claggy damp, perhaps mildew or mold. But not this aroma, which was more reminiscent of riverbanks than anything else. She frowned into the darkness, unable to discern any sort of depth or detail. Even so, she was reluctant to strike a light. As Honoria had just demonstrated, a candle in the darkness illuminated only the things nearest. And it alerted possible observers for hundreds of yards all around.

  Instead, she stepped through the doorway and felt about the frame with her fingertips. One of the Agency’s first rules was Secure your exit. Her fingers moved swiftly, carefully over the unpainted wood. There: set into the top of the frame was a sturdy metal latch that, when depressed, would release the door. Mary tested the catch. Then she swung the door closed behind her and pressed it again. So far, so good.

  Now, inside the secret door, she listened for clues as to what sort of hiding place this was. The floor gave slightly beneath her shoes — not packed earth but wooden floorboards, springy and rotting with age. How old did that make them? Perhaps thirty or forty years, depending on what lay beneath and how damp it was. Safely during the reign of George III, at least, who’d used the palace as an occasional home. Mary’s mind whirled. The old King George and Queen Charlotte were reputed to have had an ideal marriage — congenial and affectionate and dignified — and had had fifteen children, if she remembered her history lessons correctly. It made a concealed entrance of this sort less likely than ever — unless it had been built for someone other than the king.

  A small sound — a rattle or a trickle of some sort — recalled her to the present. It wasn’t an echo, but it sounded distant — as though where she stood was merely the starting point of a long corridor. And so it was. Certain now that she was alone, Mary lit her candle and, blinking against its sudden dazzle, was astonished to find herself in a narrow, low-ceilinged tunnel. The cobwebbed brick walls curved up to become the ceiling, which was scarcely taller than Mary herself. She touched the ceiling thoughtfully: a film of greasy dust coated her fingertip. The floorboards were indeed rotting but bore no particular signs of heavy use: the edges were nearly as worn as the centers, so she could at least discount the possibility of tens of thousands of urgent footsteps wearing them down.

  She moved carefully through the tunnel, the yellow glare of her candle skittering wildly off the walls, making her dizzy. It was her hand, she realized: it was shaking with excitement and nerves. She relaxed her fingers about the small grips she used to carry the candle — the only sensible way to avoid being continually burned by hot wax — and its light steadied perceptibly. Better.

  Her progress through the tunnel felt timeless. She couldn’t have been more than fifty yards from the secret door, yet the still, stale atmosphere made it seem endlessly distant. It was the tunnel’s shape, too — a series of short, straight lengths with sudden forty-five-degree turns that seemed designed to disorient its occupant. Then, quite suddenly, she came to an end — or, as she quickly realized, a beginning. It was a large hole in the tunnel floor, neatly circled with brick. It was much too large and distinctive to fall into, unless one were tumbling pell-mell through the darkness. On peering inside, Mary saw an ancient, rusting iron ladder set into the bricks that lined its walls. It was a vertical continuation of the tunnel, nothing more. What troubled her was that with a sole candle, she couldn’t see its end — only the ladder disappearing into blackness. She paused for a moment. Then, transferring her candle to her left hand and accepting philosophically the inevitable damage to her dress, she began her descent.

  The rungs weren’t painfully cold: a surprise, until Mary remembered the insulating properties of being underground. They did, however, leave a thin coating of slime against her palms, her sleeves, and her cheek when she accidentally brushed too close. She descended twelve rungs before her searching foot encountered only emptiness. Damn. She crouched — no mean feat on a ladder, in a crinoline — and shone her inadequate little light downward. It flickered wildly, and this time it wasn’t due to her shaking hand. Yet it revealed nothing — no visible floor, no detail that gave a clue as to what lay below.

  Mary snuffed out the flame and put away the candle, heedless of the dripping wax that promptly made a small pool in her pocket. Gripping the lowest rung tightly with both hands, she lowered herself down with a smooth, athletic motion. Felicity and Anne had sometimes remarked on her uncommon strength — her ability to pull herself up by the arms, even when encumbered by ten or fifteen pounds of clothing. But tonight, her arms felt bruised and shaky. She was grateful when her toes brushed something solid. She tested the surface and found it wide and even.

  Releasing the rung and resisting the temptation to wipe her hands on her skirts, she listened to the new atmosphere about her. It had a slightly hollow sound. She relit her candle and raised it, the better to inspect her new discovery. It was a small room, apparently an antechamber of sorts, with a doorway at the other side. Unlike the tunnel she’d just come through, it had a brick floor. In fact, it was a tube of a room, with curved walls that led up to a low, curved ceiling — another tunnel fashioned in bricks.

  Mary shook her head slowly, a small smile curving her lips. How utterly unlikely, how preposterous, to think that Honoria Dalrymple was mixed up in all this grime and skulking about. The room was empty, and it was unclear what purpose it served. A clandestine meeting place? A storeroom for illicit goods? A secret escape route? She would write to the Agency for more background detail. Perhaps she’d not allowed enough time.

  She crossed the room slowly. The second opening was barricaded with closely spaced wooden planks, fixed in place from the other side. There were, technically, gaps large enough to peer through, but her candle showed nothing but blackness. She’d no idea whether she was looking at a wall, six inches away, or another endless tunnel. Mary frowned at the barrier. She could remove a plank easily enough, she imagined, by kicking it loose. Yet after that, she’d have no way of replacing it in an unobtrusive fashion. It would obviously have been tampered with.

  Even so, it was instructive. The wooden planks were recent and solid, not ancient and rotting. They weren’t even that grimy. Someone else had been here in the past few months and seen fit to barricade the tunnel. Someone else had accessed the tunnel from its other end. And — as she could see now as she peered through the pla
nks from a new angle — someone had affixed a sign that said:

  DANGER

  ABSOLUTELY

  NO ACCESS

  she blinked and glanced back into the chamber. There were no obvious hazards, of course, unless one counted spilled poisons. Or the tunnels suddenly caving in.

  At that, a small, distinct chill rippled down her back — and it had nothing to do with the threat of being trapped underground. She turned back to the sign and frowned at the lettering. It was difficult to say, of course, reading backward by candlelight — and she’d seen so few examples of his handwriting, and never this sort of block printing. Yet there was something about the way the letters were formed that raised her suspicions. She felt a rush of warmth. A sense of dread. A thundering in her ears, her throat, her pounding pulse. All this, at the mere thought of the man.

  She leaned against the wall, feeling suddenly weary. It was a sickness of hers, dreaming up James Easton in the unlikeliest places. But flowing beneath that fear was the knowledge that he was, indeed, at work beneath the palace. She pushed the thought away with difficulty and looked at her candle: burning low. She sighed — and then paused. Closed her eyes as the truth struck her. She was a fool for not realizing it earlier. That was the source of the wet, almost metallic smell: she’d just entered the underground sewer system.

  It was warmer than she’d expected. Less smelly, too: the air was dank, but not suffocating or nauseating. The Thames smelled worse on a daily basis than this sewer drain did. Standing at one point within this vast underground maze of tunnels, Mary felt her choices dwindling. The case was closing in on her.