The Agency: A Spy in the House

  My dear Mary,

  First, and most important, I love you. I am proud of you, and always will be.

  I’m departing on a dangerous but necessary journey. In this box, I leave some information that may one day be important to you. You can trust Mr. Chen to help you with it.

  I must go. Take care of your mother and your new brother or sister, and help them to remember me.

  Your loving Papa

  It was so brief. Mary reread it half a dozen times, willing it each time to say something more. More about himself, more about her, more about anything at all. She didn’t realize she was crying until a tear splashed onto the page, blurring his signature.

  That made her cry all the more, and her fingers shook as she opened the crumpled knot of newspaper. Inside was something she’d entirely forgotten: a small pendant of carved jade, no longer than her thumbnail. It looked like a piece of fruit — a pear, perhaps. Its chain was tarnished from long disuse, but she remembered it with a fierce stab of possessiveness. It had been hers — hers from long ago. A piece of her Chinese heritage, which she had worn on holidays. But what was it doing here? Why had her father set it aside so carefully, in a place where she might never have found it?

  A quiet knock on the door made her jump and wipe her face hastily. “Yes?”

  Mr. Chen came in. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Miss Lang, but I need this office to receive a business caller. Could you step into the parlor? You may take as much time as you like there.”

  The word time suddenly recalled the whole situation. “I must go!” she gasped. How long had she been inside now?

  “Really, Miss Lang, you needn’t leave.”

  She tried for a smile. “On my own account, I must.” She looked down at the cigar box. It held another envelope, inscribed to her mother, and a roll of documents held with another piece of twine. “Mr. Chen,” she said, “may I leave this box with you? I can’t take it with me now.”

  “Of course. It has awaited you for a decade; it will wait a little longer.”

  Mary repacked the box, hesitated, then took out the pendant and put it on, sliding it beneath her collar. “Thank you,” she said huskily. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Mr. Chen bowed slightly. “Until next time, Miss Lang.”

  From the privacy of the carriage, James surveyed the scene before the Lascars’ refuge with narrowed eyes. He’d prolonged his interview with the warden to the point of inanity before retreating to the carriage. And now he’d been waiting for an additional half hour. It felt like much longer.

  His gaze wandered to Mary’s pocketbook, neatly propped on the facing seat. Did he dare? It was certainly unfair, ungentlemanly, taking advantage, whatever one liked to call it. . . . What the hell. It was what Mary did. Aside from the usual bits and pieces — a couple of penny stamps, small coins for the omnibus, a clean handkerchief — there was a letter, postmarked yesterday.

  James scanned it rapidly. My dear Mary, I am writing to you using my new portable letter case, which is most convenient and very practical. . . . What a nonsensical note. And what would Mary care what the old biddy did with her charges?

  He had already replaced it when something made him pause. Something nagged . . . he couldn’t quite place it. He reread the letter. What kind of headmistress gloated about a writing case when she believed her pupils’ health was at risk? And who was the woman anyway? He’d have to verify an Anne Somebody as a teacher. He held the sheet up to the light of the window, all the while mocking himself. Invisible ink and encoded letters were the stuff of children’s adventure stories, not real-life investigations. Yet everything about Mary seemed a bit like an adventure.

  A faint trace of lemon soap lingered in the carriage — a scent that immediately called to mind the image of Mary, wearing only her underclothes, her bare shoulders and arms luminous in the dim carriage. He hadn’t meant to gape like a schoolboy. Yet he wasn’t sorry that he had.

  The sight of a large bay mare interrupted his musings. It stopped before the Lascars’ refuge and its rider, a handsome blond gentleman, was instantly familiar to James. He scowled and drew back from the window, scanning the streetscape as he did. Sure enough, a sandy-haired butcher’s boy soon appeared, dangling a basket from one arm. The boy stopped in the street, squinting at an order sheet and mouthing the items to himself. James smiled at the sight of his young accomplice: Alfred Quigley certainly had a flair for the dramatic.

  When the horseman vanished inside the refuge, James checked his watch. Mary had been inside for nearly an hour. Now, with the unexpected arrival of Michael Gray, she would certainly need at least another quarter of an hour. Very well: he would reserve judgment and be productive. Think of the myriad other things he had to do today. Think of ways to find answers to his own queries. He stretched his long legs, then refolded them and realized he was grinding his teeth.

  When Mary reappeared, through the front door this time, she moved as though in a trance. Her expression, normally alert, was utterly distracted. Before Barker could fold out the steps for her, James seized her by the forearms and lifted her bodily into the carriage.

  She landed on the seat with a thump that raised dust from her skirts, but she didn’t protest. “You must be tired of waiting,” she said.

  “A little.” His tone was surprisingly even, all things considered.

  “I’m sorry.” She sounded uncharacteristically meek, but wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  He waited, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Well?” he finally demanded.

  “Oh — you want to hear what I learned.” Her eyes were red. Dust, perhaps.

  “Yes.”

  She stared out the window for a moment and seemed to focus. “Close your eyes,” she said. “I’ll tell you as I change.”

  James covered his eyes for good measure and listened impatiently to her brief description of the building and the sailors’ rooms. “That’s all you saw? What took you so long?”

  “Well, the warden caught me. I had to pretend I was looking for work. It’s a good thing we got the costume.” She finished buttoning her dress and ensured that the pendant was tucked out of sight.

  “I suppose —” she broke off when she noticed Anne’s letter lying on the seat beside her. With a slow movement, she retrieved it and stared at it, puzzled. “This is . . . how did . . . ? You — you swine! You rummaged through my personal possessions and read my private correspondence! How dare you!” Her eyes narrowed, glittering with anger; her body was tense and poised to spring.

  James felt a prick of shame, which he quickly smothered under righteous anger. “You are scarcely in a position to accuse me of underhanded behavior,” he retorted. “What about your secret meeting and the reason you were so long in the refuge?”

  “Are you mad? What secret meeting?” Her face was flushed and she looked defensive. Guilty, even.

  “I’m not a fool!” he roared. “It’s perfectly clear that you were up to something in there. How else could you have stayed so long, asking for work?”

  “I did what we agreed! If you’ll recall, it was your plan!”

  “I must have played right into your hands. It was purely by good fortune that I saw him arrive at the Lascars’ refuge. It was a clever move, getting me to suggest the place! It’s a pity you weren’t as careful about packing me off after I’d created that useful diversion. I saw him, Mary!”

  “You saw him arrive?” Now she seemed genuinely perplexed. “What on earth are you raving about?”

  He curled his lip. “More denial? I thought you cleverer than that, Miss Quinn.”

  “Oh, I could just scream. For the last time, Mr. Easton, I have no idea who you’re talking about. You suggested we explore the Lascars’ refuge. You made the plan and bought those stinking rags. I followed the plan. And now you’re accusing me of meeting somebody who is clearly a figment of your imagination!”

  “Michael Gray is a figment of my imagination? Tell that to your precious employer.”

  “
Michael Gray?” She really was outraged now. “At the refuge? What utter bosh!”

  “I suppose it’ll turn out you’re all in it together, the whole damned family, for some arcane reason I haven’t yet worked out.”

  “You’re completely obsessed with the man. Actually, no: you’re obsessed with the idea of my being in league with Gray.”

  Oh, what he wouldn’t give to shake the woman. Being a gentleman was a distinct disadvantage at moments like this. “So you deny that you met Gray at the Lascars’ refuge?”

  “Of course I deny it, you blockhead!” she howled. “How could I have met him? He wasn’t there!”

  “‘Blockhead’?” James felt his control disintegrate. “You devious little —”

  “Stop the carriage! I’m getting down!”

  “Gladly!” he snapped, thumping the roof energetically. He didn’t care where they were; he’d gladly drop her into the Thames itself.

  Mary flung open the door as the carriage slowed, and he saw that they were indeed beside the river, which shimmered like oily tar in the midday light. Its odor of rotting waste invaded the carriage, making them gag violently.

  “Shut the door,” choked out James as soon as he could speak.

  Mary looked green but prepared to climb down from the carriage. He caught her by the elbow and pulled her back inside. “Stay.”

  She seemed too queasy to argue and slammed the door smartly as the carriage accelerated westward. James could only imagine how Barker was getting on, out in the open air. There was a long silence as they both battled nausea, handkerchiefs clasped over their noses.

  After several minutes, Mary took an experimental breath. “It’s not so bad now.”

  “Good.” Yet when he put away his handkerchief, he was assaulted anew by the thick stench. He re-covered his nose again and attempted to breathe normally.

  Mary frowned. “Are you going to be sick?”

  “No.” His saliva tasted intensely salty.

  “You look chalky.”

  “I’m fine,” he said with a scowl. Why had she recovered, while he was still carrying on like a delicate maiden aunt? The last thing he wanted was to vomit in front of her.

  After a pause, she cautiously offered him her handkerchief. He took it reluctantly. Her lovely lemon scent helped more than he’d care to admit.

  “How do you do it?” he mumbled through layers of linen.

  “Do what?”

  “Live at Cheyne Walk. All the Thorolds.”

  Mary considered. “Well, Miss Thorold doesn’t care for it. Mr. Thorold says the river made his fortune, so he’s loyal to it. And Mrs. Thorold seems unaffected by the stench.”

  “The newspapers are calling this the Great Stink, you know.”

  “The Thames never smells good.”

  “But it’s never smelled this bad,” he countered. “Even the ferrymen have stopped working.”

  It was true: the usual fleet of small river taxis was nowhere to be seen. “Is it true what they say about the cause of the stink?”

  “Human refuse, dead animals, rotting vegetation, waste from tanneries and chemical works, and God knows what.” James had seen all these things — and more — while working on the tunnel excavations.

  “But the Thames has been full of that for ages. Decades.”

  “It’s been getting worse,” he said. “More people create more refuse. And it’s not just dead cats and other rubbish in there now: all the toilets in London flush directly into the river.”

  Mary shuddered. “So the heat isn’t causing the stink; it’s merely making the normal stench worse.”

  James nodded. “We’ll have to find a solution soon. London’s growing so quickly.”

  “But how can we clean the river? And where will all the refuse go?”

  “The simplest solution is to send it elsewhere — build underground pipes to take it away — and stop allowing the factories to dump their waste into the river.”

  “Underground pipes? I suppose that’s where you and your brother come in.”

  He lowered the handkerchiefs cautiously. “Or Brunel. Or the dozens of other engineers who will want to do the work.”

  She looked at him for a moment. “Aren’t you very young for an engineer?”

  Why did people always remark on that? They either thought him too young to do his job or too mature for his age. “I began my apprenticeship when I was fifteen. I’m nineteen now.” And speaking of age . . . he frowned at her critically in the gloom. “Aren’t you very young for a lady’s companion?”

  “I’m twenty.” She changed the subject abruptly. “Where are we? I suppose it’s safe to get down now.”

  He held out a hand to stop her. Their argument seemed childish after the interruption, but he had to know. “Mary, he was there.”

  “Gray? When?”

  “While you were inside, Gray rode up. He entered by the front door. You remained inside for another quarter of an hour.”

  She frowned. “He rode? That bay mare that was tethered outside?”

  “Yes!”

  “But why didn’t you say so?”

  “We’re not going to fight again, are we?” He grinned.

  One of her rare, full smiles transformed her face. “It didn’t actually come to fisticuffs.”

  “For which my nose is grateful.”

  “Your bruise is healing quickly, I see.”

  “Yes. And your hand?”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  The carriage drew to a halt. Barker swung the door open noiselessly and unfolded the steps. “Lawrence Street, Miss Quinn.”

  She hesitated a moment, then said, “I’ll keep you informed.”

  “Likewise.”

  After dinner each evening, the ladies retreated to the drawing room while Thorold and Gray drank port and ate Stilton in the dining room. Mrs. Thorold tended to nap in her armchair while Angelica played the pianoforte. This evening, however, Angelica couldn’t settle. She rustled through sheet music, tossed it aside, and settled down to mope by the windows. She’d been like this all day.

  “I think I’ll get my sewing basket,” Mary finally said. “May I fetch you anything?”

  Angelica didn’t even turn her head.

  Mary gently closed the drawing-room door behind her. It was quiet on the landing. By now, the servants were in their own hall having their evening meal. Downstairs, the dining-room doors stood open. Not normal practice, but given the stuffy weather, not a bad idea. Yellowish gaslight spilled into the hall, along with low, intense voices.

  “With all respect, sir, you ought to reconsider the Brighton scheme.”

  “I’ve already told you. It’s not possible.”

  Mary paused, one hand on the balustrade. This was even better luck than she’d hoped.

  “I realize the ladies prefer to stay in London, but under the circumstances —”

  “You heard that family conversation, Gray. Mrs. Thorold made herself very clear. It is not a question of preference but medical necessity.”

  “There is a medical case for getting her out of the city, sir. Could she not consult other physicians in Brighton?”

  A pause. Then, “Don’t interfere in matters you don’t understand.”

  “Sir, I —”

  “Enough!” The sudden anger in Thorold’s voice was startling. “I have informed you of my decision; it is not reversible.”

  Gray’s voice was hard now. “I went to George Villas today, sir.”

  Another pause. “You what?”

  “George Villas, Limehouse. Site of the Imperial Baptist East London Refuge for Destitute Asiatic Sailors. Sir.”

  “Why the devil should you go there? It’s not one of your responsibilities.”

  Michael was speaking now with heavy emphasis. “I was following up some irregularities in last quarter’s accounting.” He paused for effect, but Thorold made no attempt to speak. “I wondered, sir, why the company was paying for the . . .”

  A servant’s foots
teps in the corridor made both men pause. Then Thorold said coldly, “As I said, that is outside your purview, Gray. If you want to keep your job, you’ll mind your own damn business.”

  Silence.

  “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mary paused a moment longer, but the conversation was clearly over. Even so, it was a piece of luck. She hurried upstairs to her bedroom and turned the key in the lock. She scrabbled around for a minute, trying to find her candle, when suddenly a gravelly voice said, “I’ve a rushlight in my pocket, miss.”

  Mary stifled a scream. When she could speak again, shock made her severe. “Cassandra Day! What on earth are you doing in my bedroom?” Her fingers closed round the box of lucifers. In the sudden flare of the match, she saw Cass crouched on the floor by the washstand, her knees drawn up under her chin. Judging from the way the girl blinked and squinted, she had been sitting in the dark for some time. Mary took her time lighting a second candle.

  “Now. What’s all this about?” she asked crisply.

  “Don’t be cross, Miss Quinn: it’s important.”

  “What’s important?”

  Cass stood awkwardly, twisting her hands in her apron. “Something I heard today. I didn’t know how else to tell you.”

  “Won’t you be missed from the kitchen?”

  “I’ve washed up the pots, miss. Cook gave me leave to mend my aprons.”

  From the look of the specimen she was wearing, she needed the time. Mary nodded. “All right, then. Sit down. I’ll work on your hands while you tell me what you heard.”

  Even in the dim light, she could see Cass flush with satisfaction. She sat gingerly in the cane chair, careful not to let her skirts touch the clean bedding.

  “Now.” Mary opened the small jar of salve. “What’s this news?” Cass squared her narrow shoulders and took a deep breath. “Early this morning, I was polishing the silver in the butler’s pantry.”

  Mary frowned. “That’s a footman’s job.” Being outside the scullery — never mind handling the heavy, ugly, and very expensive family silverware — was a significant breach of domestic discipline. If caught, Cass would have been dismissed on the spot.