by Y. S. Lee
“You seem to see a difference between the risks run by Ching and the risks run by Bates. They both chose to fight, and they were both in control of their actions in the ring. Do you concede that much?”
He nodded.
“Yet you pity Bates, although he was the person who smashed his own hand. But you’re content to leave Ching to his fate, even if that fate is injury or death at the hands of an avenging mob.”
“I suppose I see Ching as the more skilled, experienced fighter. I don’t worry about his ability to manage a few men.”
“Even an armed gang, with the element of surprise?”
James frowned. “Mary, let me ask you: why do you feel so protective of Ching? Is it because he’s somehow aligned with your father in your mind?”
She fell silent. How could she possibly explain the connection – the positive, subcutaneous recognition – she’d felt, the moment she’d first seen Ching? It was utterly irrational. And yet it persisted. She’d left the pub because she was sickened by the brutality. Yet she was sorry to have turned her back on Ching. Above all, she knew that she needed to see him again. She turned and began to walk. “I suppose I have a great deal of sympathy for outsiders,” she said slowly.
“Yes. But this seems to go beyond that.”
How could she answer him? She could picture the utter scepticism in his eyes if she told him what she felt. They walked a hundred yards in silence, then he asked, “Are you glad you went?”
“I hated the violence.” She paused. “But I had to see it. To understand what my father could do, what he wanted to teach me.”
“He probably used it for self-defence,” said James, rather awkwardly. It felt highly inappropriate, speculating about Mary’s dead father’s character. “He would have wanted you to know how to protect yourself.”
“Are you so certain?”
He was silent.
“I know almost nothing about my father. Your charitable interpretation is possible, but so are myriad others.”
They walked some more. As they crossed Oxford Street, the crowds thinned substantially and she kept a little further from James, as befitted a young man and a boy walking together.
“There’s something else worrying you.”
He knew her so well. She’d felt his enquiring, assessing gaze upon her at various points through the evening, trying to divine her thoughts. “Yes.” She thought about the many ways she’d rehearsed her approach to the subject: delicate, oblique, nonchalant. All seemed either dishonest or cowardly, so in the end, she chose bald fact. “This morning, I had a caller who came, indirectly, from Scotland Yard.” It was the best she could do to explain Anne Treleaven and the Agency without lies or betrayal. “I’m told that Henry Thorold is dying in jail, and that Angelica Thorold is travelling from Austria in the hope of seeing him before his death.”
James’s face was careful, neutral. “Is she likely to make it in time?”
“She’s meant to arrive in London quite soon, I believe.”
“Why did your caller tell you all this?”
Mary took a deep breath. “It’s possible that Mrs Thorold might also return. If Thorold is dying, she too might want to see him again.”
“A final goodbye? Why on earth, when she hates him so?”
“It could be an attempt to attach full responsibility for her crimes to a dead man,” said Mary, “enabling her free return to England.”
Still that bland expression, giving nothing away. “Your caller’s intention was to warn you of possible danger?”
“In part. We ought to be wary. You, especially.”
“I suppose it’s good of them to warn us. You.”
Here it was: the point of no return. “I’ve also been asked to keep watch outside Newgate Prison, to see if I can recognize her if she attempts to visit Thorold there.” She hurried on. “It’s a rational request: I’ve lived in her home and seen her on a daily basis, and thus have a better than average chance of success.” A minute passed, during which a carriage jogged past them, there was a distant burst of laughter and the wind whistled menacingly. But no response from James, unless she counted the sudden, extreme stillness beside her. “James?”
After a long moment, he looked at her. Even in the semi-darkness, she could see the turmoil in his eyes. “What did you say to this person?” His voice was tense. Toneless. Held low and small by the force of his will.
Mary swallowed. “I said I would have to talk to you, as my business partner. I will communicate our decision tomorrow.”
He drew a deep breath. “Thank you for waiting.”
“How could I not?” Again, silence from James. She stumbled on, hating how defensive she sounded. “We can’t allow Mrs Thorold to re-establish herself in England. I need to do my part.” Yet more silence. “James, say something. You may be angry, or have suspicions about the accuracy of this information, but even so: speak to me.”
In one swift movement, he turned and pulled her into a bruising hug, the pedestrians of Russell Square be damned. His voice was muffled in her hair as he said, in a strangled voice, “I’m not angry.”
“No?”
“No. I’m terrified.”
Mary almost gasped. James, fearful? She pulled back slightly, fighting against his clasp. “I’ve been thinking what to do. Your brother is back from holiday soon, isn’t he? He could take over some of your site duties until we know more—”
“Good God, Mary, I’m not frightened for myself. But the thought of you out there, alone, being spotted by Mrs Thorold, or deciding to pursue her: that’s what absolutely petrifies me.” He shook his head. “I’ll be fine. She’ll have more important things to do than come and find me.”
“I disagree! She tried to kill you. If she’s brought to trial, you’ll be the most important witness against her. She has every reason to try again to murder you. And this time, she won’t leave the burning building until she knows she’s succeeded.”
James’s jaw shifted subtly into what Mary thought of as his “stubborn angle”. “For all she knows, I’m dead. She’s too arrogant to think she might have failed the first time.”
“And too careless to check? All she’d have to do is consult a builder’s directory, or write a letter to your offices, or just stroll through Great George Street and ask any small boy who’s idling about!”
“So what are you proposing? That I go into hiding and leave you to track her down on your own?”
“Of course not. But you must acknowledge the danger you’re in. And we need to create a plan to protect you.”
“Don’t you mean ‘protect us’? Mary, there are two things keeping you safe. The first is that she doesn’t seem to know you were involved in the original case; for all she knows, you were simply Angelica’s paid companion.”
“Which is precisely why I’m a good choice to watch for her.”
James shook his head. “No: the second reason is that she has no idea of our connection. As soon as she realizes that we are close, you’re in as much danger as I am.”
Mary opened her lips to refute this, then froze. He was right. Damn it all, he was right. She released her tight clutch on his shoulders. James, too, straightened and let her go. They both breathed as though they’d been running.
“What do you propose?” she said, eventually.
“The only thing possible: we must sever all contact until Mrs Thorold is arrested.”
“She might never be. We might never even confirm that she’s in the country.”
“For a period of time, then.”
Mary shook her head. “I don’t like it, James. If our courtship escapes her notice – which is unlikely, given how formal and public we’ve been – there’s the small matter of Quinn and Easton.”
“That’s why we must begin immediately. She’s not yet in England, I assume; your contact at the Met won’t have been slow to alert you. As detectives, we’ve never advertised in the papers, thank God. I’ll take down the nameplate in Great George Street. Ap
art from that, it’s all word of mouth and rumour, which will blow away in the breeze.”
“What if she has an associate who’s already been observing you? Your daily routines lead directly to me.”
“If she had an associate who knew where to find me, I’d already be dead.” His voice was even, unemphatic, but the words made Mary shiver.
“Unless she wanted to confront you herself…”
“Revenge being a dish best served cold, etc? Is she theatrically inclined?”
Mary made an impatient gesture. “Well, she did try to incinerate you in a decrepit charity home, rather than simply shoot you or cut your throat.” As James opened his mouth to reply, she cut him off. “But this sort of speculation isn’t useful. Neither is parting ways. We’re much better off working together against Mrs Thorold.”
James frowned. “Why are you so intent on throwing yourself into danger’s path?”
She sighed. “Why are you so certain you can bear all the risk for both of us?”
They glared at each other for another long moment, tension rising. Then, finally, James seemed to deflate. “There’s no clear path, is there?”
“There seldom is.”
But he was scarcely listening. “This is precisely what I feared when we began working together: that you would become enmeshed in something truly life-threatening and I would be powerless to help.” He shook his head. “No. It’s worse than my nightmare, because I’m actually the cause of your peril. My God, can you imagine if we’d already published banns, or were married?”
Mary’s stomach turned over. James was going in a direction she’d failed to envision. “I’m in danger anyway,” she said, rapidly. “And we accept a certain level of risk in our daily work as detectives.”
“That’s far removed from the vendetta of a ruthless murderess. Look at me, Mary.” She did so, and the agony in his eyes made her tremble. “Do you really think you’d bear the same level of risk whether we’re together or apart?”
“No. I was resisting your point of view, mainly because I was afraid you’d already made your decision.”
He smiled. “Inherently, reflexively rebellious. It’s a miracle you lived to adulthood.”
“It’s the reason I survived.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “So, what’s your excuse for being inherently, reflexively authoritative?”
“I’m always right?” He laughed as she swatted at him. “Go on, do you have a better plan?”
“In fact, I have. We suspend any work for Quinn and Easton. I continue with my assignment, you with your usual responsibilities. We take no foolish risks, but neither do we anticipate disaster. And we wait and see.”
“It’s still too dangerous to see one another.”
“I think you are right about that, in the short term. But the next fortnight will reveal to us a great deal.”
He frowned for a moment. “You’re correct, of course,” he said. It was one of the things she loved most about him: a true humility that undercut his arrogance. It was what enabled two such strong-willed people to find agreement.
“Perhaps in a week’s time we could communicate. What do you think of a ‘chance’ meeting in a public place – Mudie’s, perhaps?” she said. “It’s bedlam on a Saturday afternoon.”
“Four o’clock at the lending library? Sounds very cloak and dagger.”
“I could do without the dagger.”
“Indeed.” They began to walk again, across the diagonal of the garden square. As they reached its edge, James spoke again. “Mary, we’re going to be all right, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are,” she said quickly. Too quickly. She drew a steadying breath and tried again. “We’re merely being cautious and planning for the worst possible case.” She hoped she sounded more certain than she felt.
“The day this is over – the very instant we’re safe – I’m going to marry you.”
A rush of heat surged through Mary, made her tremble. She couldn’t find words, clever or otherwise, to reply.
“What? Speechless? I should like this moment to be officially documented, please. On the thirteenth of October, A.D. 1860, Miss Quinn had no ready retort to a speech made by Mr Easton.”
She half-laughed. “James, do shut up.”
“Perhaps if offered sufficient inducement.”
She glanced about swiftly and discovered a minor miracle: they were, just for a minute, utterly alone in the foggy dark. She clasped his head and pulled him down for a long, luxurious kiss. It was their first proper kiss in many months, and – fear intruded – possibly their last. She pushed that thought from her mind and focused only on the warmth of his lips, his subtle scent, his hand stroking the length of her spine. When they eventually broke apart, she whispered, “How was that?”
His breathing was ragged. “An excellent beginning.”
“The breeches aren’t a distraction?”
His small puff of laughter tickled her neck, her ear. “I doubt an earthquake could distract me at this point.”
“Really? Mmm. Let’s try it again.”
Five
Sunday, 14 October, morning
Gordon Square, Bloomsbury
Mary was wearing a white muslin frock and carrying a frilly silk parasol: absurd choices, considering they were standing on a stony beach in northern Scotland under a flaying winter rain. She seemed impervious to the weather, however, and was using her parasol to strike the pebbles, one at a time. “One of these is hollow,” she cried to him, scarcely audible over the shrieking wind. “When we find it, we’ll have it.” “Have what?” he roared back. She looked incredulous. “The answer, of course.” Her tapping became louder and louder, eventually resolving itself into a series of impatient double-raps on a wooden door. James struggled awake into a foggy grey morning not much warmer than the Scottish beach, and realized he was in bed and very much alone.
“Enter,” he said, around a yawn.
The door opened silently, but it wasn’t Mrs Vine with his morning coffee. It was George, struggling to balance a tray with a coffee pot, a pair of cups and saucers and a plate of sugared biscuits. He was wrapped haphazardly in a heavily embroidered velvet dressing-gown and most of his hair was plastered to one side of his head. Still, he looked fully awake, and that was sufficiently unusual to make James sit upright.
“Whatever’s happened, George?” The elder Easton was normally a slugabed who languished in his house slippers long after James had breakfasted and left for the office.
“Can’t a man deliver his brother’s coffee tray now and again?” asked George. “Strikes me as a thoughtful and affectionate thing to do.”
“In this house, it only serves to make the brother extremely suspicious.” James rescued the tilting tray from George’s hands and placed it on his bedside table, then shrugged on his own dressing-gown, which was of sober navy-blue wool, in stark contrast to George’s dandyish taste. “Here, I’ll pour. Did you lose the teaspoons en route?”
George looked annoyed. “I wondered what that noise was.”
“Pull up a chair.” James poured two cups of steaming coffee, adding large amounts of cream and sugar to the first and passing it to George. “Here you go.” He sat on the edge of his bed, took two sips of scalding coffee and replaced the cup gently in its saucer. He was as ready as he would ever be. “Now, what’s this all about? It certainly doesn’t feel like good news.”
George took a tentative sip and screwed up his face. “I can’t taste the sugar at all. Good Lord, I can’t believe you drink this stuff black, Jamie.”
James tried not to flinch at the use of his childhood nickname. “Stir it with your finger.”
“It’s bitter! Are you sure you put enough in?”
James half-laughed, half-groaned. “George, if you don’t shut up about the substandard coffee, I’ll use my chamberpot to give it a good swirl round. You might like it better, then.”
“There’s no need to be disgusting. Are you feeling unwell?”
James co
nsidered. “Banging headache. I don’t think I’ll go to church today.” He felt perfectly healthy in body. But he wasn’t going to risk St Pancras today in case Mary was there. Even sharing a parish church was too great a link between them, now.
George looked at him carefully. “I thought you seemed off. Grim and terse.”
“Well, it’s nice you could distinguish between that and my usual behaviour.”
George failed to smile. “What’s wrong, Jamie? Is the headache anything to do with, er, your … female friend?”
James became genuinely irritable. “She has a name, George. I’d appreciate your learning to use it.”
“Miss Quinn, then.” Despite his best efforts, George looked as though the name left a nasty taste in his mouth. “It’s something to do with her, and that infernal detective agency she made you set up, isn’t it? I knew that was a disastrous idea, but would you listen to me? Oh no—”
“George!” James leaned forward and pounded the side table, making the biscuits leap and skitter across the tray. “Just because you’ve a poor opinion of her doesn’t mean she’s the source of all trouble. And don’t give me that look. I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you? I’d be surprised…”
James was sick of acrimony. Besides, George was dangerously close to the mark. It was to do with Mary, but not in the way that George suspected. “My ill temper has nothing to do with Miss Quinn,” he repeated, with a truth that was more emotional than factual. “Now, will you please tell me your news?” He raised his coffee cup to his lips, then set it down again. The early argument had curdled his stomach.
For answer, George pulled a letter from his dressing-gown pocket and placed it triumphantly before James. It was addressed to the Messieurs Easton and had a City postmark. “Came yesterday evening,” said George, in tones of great satisfaction. “But you’d gone out…”
James refrained from rolling his eyes and unfolded the letter. As he read, his eyes widened and he glanced up at his brother’s smirking face.
“Keep reading,” said George. “It gets better.”