The Traitor in the Tunnel

  Mary listened with patience. It was a genuine puzzle as to what Octavius Jones wanted with silly, gossipy Amy. There was the all-too-obvious, of course, but he needn’t have chosen Amy for that; a woman in service was difficult to visit and had little free time. No, he must be after information — and it was surely Amy’s place of employment that captured his real interest. But in what?

  Of course! She was a bloody fool not to have seen it immediately. Octavius Jones was entirely capable of bending a girl like Amy to his will. And he’d chosen well: not only was Amy malleable and infatuated, but she was the maid who cleaned and dusted the public drawing rooms. Nobody was better poised to steal those ornaments than she. It was simple enough for Amy to carry a snuffbox or a small china figurine in her handbag when she went out to meet Jones. And with Amy running all the risks, Jones would likely be safe even if she was caught. He might even be able to count on her loyal silence under questioning.

  This theory led to new possibilities and new motives for the thefts. Mary had always assumed that common avarice was the reason: the items stolen were of good quality, although far from the finest examples of their kind. They would fetch a decent price without calling undue attention to their provenance, and Mary had always assumed they’d long since been sold to unscrupulous antiques dealers. But what if the palace thief was no ordinary thief? What if he was calculating and subtle, and interested in far more than a small profit on a couple of Dresden shepherdesses? If Octavius Jones was the mastermind behind the thefts, there had to be something else to it. The question was, what was he planning?

  She could imagine a sort of shrill exposé about the laxity of palace security. Or perhaps on the corruption of antiques dealers — no, too rarefied for readers of the Eye. A scandal-mongering piece about the obscene riches amid which the royal family lived? No, too socialist-republican for Jones. Or perhaps he was after the questionable characters of the royal domestics — decrying the corruption belowstairs. That would be a hard blow for Amy, though; was that perhaps too unconscionable a betrayal even for Jones? It would mean significant personal risk if Amy took umbrage. No. It had to be palace security, then, or something similar.

  “It’s a delicate thing to ask,” Amy was saying, already blushing in anticipation.

  Mary was recalled with a jolt. “You can ask anything of me,” she said.

  They had gone into their shared room now, and Amy closed the door firmly behind her. “Well, Mrs. Shaw wouldn’t give me leave to go out tomorrow night,” she said, rolling her eyes. “The old ninny. Said she reckoned I could go and visit my mother on Sunday afternoon, same as always.”

  Mary grinned. “Do you visit your mother of a Sunday?”

  Amy shot her an indignant look. “’Course I do. I just make it quick, like, so’s to leave time to meet Mr. Jones. Anyway, there it is: I’ve an appointment to see my gentleman friend, and I ain’t allowed out.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Maybe. But I thought again, and perhaps it’s for the best. And that’s what I wanted to ask you . . .” To Mary’s surprise, Amy blushed again, deeply. “Would you — d’you think I could — well . . .”

  “Do you want me to help you slip out?”

  Amy shook her head and went from pink to scarlet. “To help Mr. Jones sneak in. And to let us have the room for a bit.” Mary’s face must have reflected her surprise, for Amy rushed on. “I been thinking, right, and this is the thing to do. He’s a lovely man, is my Tavvy, but he’s a bit on the shy side.” Mary tried not to show her utter disbelief at this description. “And I reckon a little encouragement is just what he needs.”

  Mary shook out her apron, inspecting it for dirt. “Encouragement to what?”

  It was Amy’s turn to stare. “Why, to pop the question, you goose! What else?”

  Instantly, Mary’s thoughts turned to the thefts. “Was this Mr. Jones’s idea?”

  “Of course not!” Something in Amy seemed to snap. “Ain’t you been listening? It’s my idea, you dunce, because Tavvy’s so blooming slow. If I had permission to go out tomorrow, he’d take me to stupid Astley’s to see them stupid horses again, or for another freezing-cold walk in the freezing-cold park, and all I’d get for my troubles’d be a cuddle in a corner and a dress that’s all over mud. No, ta — not again.”

  Mary’s lips twitched. She had, indeed, been sluggish on the uptake — nearly as slow as Jones. “So by giving you a bit of privacy . . .”

  Amy smirked, all embarrassment evaporated. “Right you are. A little encouragement and a nice warm bed, and I’ll be the future Mrs. Octavius Jones by Wednesday morning.”

  “Sounds as if he hasn’t a chance.”

  “Not even half.” Amy wrestled mightily with her corset and pulled it off with a groan of relief. “Oh, that’s heaven, that is.” She waved the giant pink lobster’s-tail bustle at Mary with a disgusted air. “He ain’t never even seen this, y’know; that’s how behindhand the man is.”

  Mary grinned. “I’d never have guessed.” Amy’s plan was far from original, but her brazenness was endearing.

  Amy rubbed soap onto a flannel and washed herself with brisk, decisive gestures that spoke of her determination. “I once suggested — you know, coy, like — going to his place, but he says his landlady’s a right old sourpuss, and he daren’t cross her. We’ll move into a proper house, of course, once we’re married.”

  Mary knew better than to challenge Amy’s fantasy of escape: a woman intent on freedom through marriage wouldn’t listen to a naysaying spinster. Amy was only following the usual script. Yet Mary couldn’t resist a gentle question. “D’you think you’ll be happy, married to Mr. Jones?”

  Amy looked at her, all astonishment. “I’ll be the lady of the house and never wipe out a chamber pot again. If you don’t call that happy, I don’t know what’s wrong with you.”

  “I meant with Mr. Jones.”

  “Oh, Tavvy. Aye, he’s an all-right sort, I reckon. But he’s a gentleman, and that’s what’s important.”

  Mary gave a philosophical shrug. At least Amy wasn’t blinded by visions of romance. “Well, then — about tomorrow night. What d’you want me to do?”

  It was only after Amy had rolled herself into a ball and fallen into the sleep of the just schemer that Mary’s amusement faded. She’d been dreading her next task all evening. The habits of discipline she’d learned at the Academy were strong, though, and so she pulled a thin folder from beneath the bed, took out a sheet of cheap paper, a pen, and a bottle of ink, and prepared to write a letter.

  Her father could read and write adequately. His reply — if he replied — would be an immediate first test of his identity. Unless, of course, he was too weak to write and had to dictate a letter. Or the opium had addled his brain. Or they didn’t trust him with a pen. The possibilities were several. Nevertheless, she would begin with a letter.

  Dear Mr. Lang —

  She stared at the words and then at the expanse of blank notepaper beneath. She could hardly start with I may be your daughter. She gazed at the page until her eyes lost focus, until she could see and smell the bittersweet poverty of her childhood home. A loud snore from the other side of the room made her jump, and she returned to the present.

  Finally, she dipped her pen again and wrote:

  I may have information that could help your case. Please reply as soon as you are well enough to receive callers.

  Yours sincerely,

  A friend

  She blotted the page in one swift gesture, not pausing to reread the letter. A moment later it was sealed, the address written, and a penny stamp applied, and she was pulling on her coat and hat. Slipping out to the nearest pillar box after hours was a risk, but a far lesser one than keeping that letter overnight. And if she got the response she needed, it was the least of the risks she’d have to run in the next few days.

  Leaving the palace without Mrs. Shaw’s permission was strictly forbidden. But, like many forbidden things, it was also rather easy. A
t night, as was the custom in grand houses, the footmen slept outside the storerooms, the better to guard Her Majesty’s valuables by night. Any thief who evaded the Yeomen of the Guard outside the palace would then have to bypass at least one large, cricket-bat-wielding manservant before getting near the royal candlestick holders. However, Mary had discovered early on that the footmen nearest the service door were the youngest, the newest, the hardest worked — and thus also the deepest sleepers. One could tiptoe past them with perfect confidence. In fact, she’d wager that if she lit a string of firecrackers beneath their trundle beds, the commotion would only cause them to push their faces deeper into their pillows.

  So Mary let herself out through the servants’ entrance without much concern for the inner guardians of the palace. Outside, however, were the real sentries — the Queen’s Guard, whose duty it was to protect their sovereign, not her silverware. They were trained, armed, disciplined. Mary shivered. At this moment, she still had a choice. The first possibility was to play the dizzy, naughty maidservant, tripping out after dark to post an illicit letter. Her success in that case, however, would depend on the character of the soldier in the guard box. If he was lenient, he might let her get away with it. But that route left far too much power in the hands of one unknown man. What if he was dutiful? Worse, what if he required payment for his silence?

  It was too uncertain. She set out — westward into the gardens, away from the grand entrance gates. In the open courtyard, fat raindrops thudded heavily against her hat and fell, startlingly cold, onto her cheeks. Between the dark and fog and steady sleet, it was difficult to see anything. The mass of shadows in the middle distance, however, was certainly a stand of densely grown hawthorns, perhaps twice the height of a man. She had seen the young princes and princesses playing in front of them, using a natural hollow as a sort of playhouse. And she knew that they grew against the tall iron fence that encircled the palace grounds.

  The night was unnervingly still. In the elegant streets beyond, there was only silence — not even the clatter of a dustman’s cart — and the outlying parks filled with carriages only during the fashionable hours. After her early years around Limehouse and Soho, Mary had thought St. John’s Wood — home of the Agency — quiet and peaceful at night. But the northern suburbs positively bustled compared with her current streetscape. It was all about density, she supposed. In east London, it was common for several families and their animals to share a pair of rooms in a ramshackle tenement. Here, one family with its domestic staff occupied a few acres of palace and park, making for a peaceable hush at night. Yet the hollow emptiness of Westminster made her feel edgier than did the seedy violence of Soho or the Haymarket. Nobody about. No one to hear her scream.

  A slight rustling in the hedge made her start. She stared furiously into the shadows, willing whatever it was to move again. It did not. A change in the wind, perhaps, or a bird. She would not permit herself to speculate further. She moved steadily, holding herself in readiness — for what, she didn’t know. Perhaps that was the point. As she reached the play hollow, she stopped and listened again. Nothing. Was it possible she’d imagined the first rustle? She was certainly jumpy enough. After waiting a full three minutes, she pressed on. The branches were long and tangled, and although she could shield her face with one hand, their thorns caught at her hat and sleeve, pulled at her skirts. She’d be a fine mess when she got in. With time and patience, however, she pushed through. In a way, the tearing thorns affirmed that no human, at least, could be lurking within the hedge, for all her vivid suspicions.

  The fence was surprisingly low, a wrought-iron affair perhaps one and a half times a man’s height. It was details like this that reminded Mary of the palace’s history as a grand home and pleasure palace rather than a state residence. It was no wonder that the occasional lunatic managed to wander into the grounds. One could hardly expect a fence like this, abutted with shrubbery, to keep out the determined. Or to keep them in.

  Mary found a toehold at waist level, pulled herself up, and balanced with care over the rather spiky top. It was a simple matter of using her arms and hoping her petticoats didn’t catch as she went over. When she dropped down on the other side, she wasn’t even breathless. The hawthorns had been the greater challenge. From here, it was only a hundred yards or so to the nearest pillar box. Then back over the fence. In ten minutes, she’d be in bed.

  She fought her way through the brambles for a second time, cursing the tiny hooks that gripped her clothing with such tenacity, and emerged annoyed but warmed by her little adventure. Then she looked across the garden toward the palace, at the yellow lights winking from the odd exposed window, and felt suddenly cold. All the feelings she had long suppressed overcame her at last, making her stagger. It was like a physical blow: she was not just alone, but lonely.

  The solitary state was nothing new, of course. But she was lonely now for different reasons. She was lonely despite the possibility of family — perhaps because of that very likelihood. Because she might not be absolutely, truly alone, after all, and she might have preferred it so. Her fingers went to her throat, touching the reassuring lump of her pendant. She found it uncomfortable to wear now. Not literally, for the pendant was small and weighed very little. But each time she touched it or felt the slither of its chain about her neck, she writhed and tried not to think of the man who might be her father.

  She’d considered taking the necklace off, of course. Or throwing it into the river. She had the power to erase the last tangible link to her past, just like that. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Too frightened to face the truth. Too afraid to bury it. When had she become such a coward?

  Mary stopped short. She’d always despised cowardice. Found it difficult to understand in others, much less sympathize with. But here she was now, sidling away from the real problem. A man called Lang Jin Hai was locked in a prison cell, old and ill, likely abused by guards, awaiting trial for murder — and all she’d done was write him a letter. What a stupid, useless thing she’d chosen — hoping he’d not reply, hoping she could salve her conscience by saying that she’d tried. When she considered the problem in theory — the injustice of a man being falsely accused — she burned with anger. Yet the shame of being related to such a man — a killer, an opium addict — made her shrivel. She was wasting her time tiptoeing about the palace and hoping that Prince Bertie might remember something, that his mother might extend leniency to this foreign criminal. But even if they did — a vast and unlikely assumption — such so-called success would bring her no closer to the real problem. Whatever happened to Lang Jin Hai, she wouldn’t have come anywhere near dealing with him as she ought to. As she needed to.

  She had to confront Lang Jin Hai. She would have to gain access to his jail somehow and speak with him. Only by seeing him could she know whether he was in fact her father, or whether it was all a grotesque coincidence. She’d no idea which scenario she might prefer.

  As she reentered the palace, Mary was cold, distracted, brooding — three reasons why she nearly walked into the furtive figure creeping along the servants’ corridor. It was only her training that saved her — had her stopping behind a door frame even before she knew why. For this was no ordinary prowler. Not a footman investigating a strange noise. Not another maid on an illicit errand. The tall figure was instantly recognizable, her elegant posture thrown into relief by the candle flickering in her hand. It was, of all people, Honoria Dalrymple.

  Mary gave her a short lead, then followed with soundless steps. The lady-in-waiting had no reason to be in the servants’ quarters. Even in the unlikely event that she had wanted a cup of hot milk before bed, she had only to ring for her maid. Yet here she was, picking her careful way past the butler’s pantry until she reached a flight of stairs. She paused, as though summoning courage. Then she opened the heavy door and began her journey into the subterranean kitchens.

  Mary rubbed her eyes. It was almost too perfect to be true, as though her torture
d brain had produced a hallucination spectacular enough to distract her from thoughts of Lang Jin Hai. Yet even as she paused, she heard the soft clop of Honoria’s shoes against the rough stone steps. Honoria had left the door slightly ajar, rather as though she didn’t expect to be long. Mary thought about her choices — but only for a moment. Nothing in the world could have kept her from following the Honorable Honoria Dalrymple into the bowels of the palace.

  Mary waited a few seconds longer, then peeked down the stairs. Smiled widely. And descended. The stone floors were worn smooth, here in the heart of the original Buckingham House. It had undergone generations of renovations, including very recent ones to create nurseries for Her Majesty’s young family, but the kitchens had remained unchanged. It was perhaps a shame — they were dank and smoky, desperately small for the large staff, and, Mary imagined, a positive inferno in the warmer months. In present circumstances, though, they were cozy and warm, the coals from the banked-down fires offering just enough light for Mary to track Honoria’s movements across the sloping flagged floor.

  As the heel of Honoria’s shoe scraped loudly against an uneven section of flagstone, she glanced down and sniffed. Tense as she was, Mary couldn’t repress a smile. So the snobbery wasn’t an act put on for the queen’s benefit: even a humble square of stone could be found remiss. Honoria halted before what Mary thought of as the herbarium — not that any of the staff called it by such a grandiose title. It was a small space, like an open room, near the two vast bread ovens where all the palace baking took place. At summer’s end, the cook maids hung large, bushy bundles of thyme, rosemary, sage, and tarragon from the ceilings. These dried in the heat of the nearby fires, then were packed into dark cupboards for the winter. Now the small space was empty, although perfumed by the ghosts of those aromatics.