Rivals in the City: A Mary Quinn Mystery

by Y. S. Lee

  The room was utterly silent, save for the faint whisper of the lamp. “Go on, please,” murmured Anne.

  “It weren’t until I tried to help her into the cab that I saw that blooming great thing sticking out her back. By the time I got her inside, she didn’t have much breath. She asked me to bring her here. I said shouldn’t I take her to a hospital, and quick, but she said no, just here. After that, I didn’t ask no more questions, ma’am; it were plain that she were in a bad way.”

  “You did the right thing,” said Anne, “and you shall be rewarded for your kindness and clear thinking.” She turned to Mary. “Are you able to stay with Ivy until the doctor arrives? There are a few things I must see to.”

  Mary nodded. Anne would need to mobilize all possible Agency staff to search for both Angelica and Mrs Thorold. “I shall let you know the moment Miss Murchison says anything,” she said. And with a quiet swish of skirts, Anne Treleaven vanished, leaving Mary and the cabman to their awkward vigil.

  Mary stared at Ivy Murchison’s face, which was drained of colour and pinched with pain. Was it a shade paler now? Impossible to be certain. She snipped the corset strings, too, and with that loosening, thought she could see the woman’s ribcage rising and falling with each breath. She drew comfort from that and refused to allow her imagination to run riot.

  The doctor was taking his time. While she waited, she cleaned the wound with vinegar and water and daubed honey around the oozing hole to help it heal. She changed the towels and continued to stanch the blood. She endeavoured to ignore the ticking of the mantelpiece clock, and tried also not to curse as she wondered how long they might wait for a physician.

  When he finally arrived, irritable and impatient, Anne accompanied him into the room. Her face expressed no great confidence in the man, but she kept her lips pressed tightly together. He pulled off his gloves and dropped them on his medical bag; his fingernails were dirty. There was macassar oil on his collar. When Mary described what she had done thus far, his professional amour-propre was offended. “Far better to leave the doctoring to professionals,” he sneered. “A lady’s timid poking about invariably makes things worse.”

  He ordered Miss Murchison moved to a bedroom, where he braced himself against her shoulder and jerked out the blade with considerable grunting effort. Its removal was accompanied by a huge gush of blood, so copious that both Mary and Anne gasped. The bleeding seemed as though it would never end. After far too long, he dropped the last sodden towel on the floor and ordered that the wound be bandaged. Mary was relieved to do it herself, rather than trust those clumsy, grubby hands. From his battered medical bag, he produced a series of pills and powders, to be administered as rapidly as possible. He held out little hope for the patient, given the depth of the wound and the likelihood of infection. The bill reflected his absolute confidence in his judgement.

  Mary saw him to the front door, struggling to contain her revulsion, then returned to Miss Murchison’s room, where Anne was sitting beside the bed. The physician had left a trail of mud across the braided rug, she noted numbly, and then she felt a flash of anger. Why couldn’t he use the boot-scraper, like everybody else?

  “I’ll watch her tonight,” murmured Anne. “You should rest.”

  “Any word of Angelica?”

  Anne shook her head. “I have agents out searching for Mrs Thorold. If she’s with her mother, they will hopefully find them both. If she’s not, she’ll return on her own.”

  Mary thought she understood. The Agency had fewer operatives these days. Some – perhaps many – had thrown their allegiance behind Felicity Frame when she departed. Others, like Mary, might have gone out on their own. For those who remained, Mrs Thorold’s treatment of Ivy Murchison could hardly be misinterpreted: it would have been simple enough to make an agent disappear, to tip her body into the Thames. But in allowing Miss Murchison the chance to find her way home, Mrs Thorold was sending a clear warning. “You’ve informed Scotland Yard, of course?” asked Mary. It was a question she’d never have dared to formulate before. It was a measure of just how much things had changed between her and Anne.

  Anne’s hesitation was scarcely perceptible but managed, nevertheless, to communicate her surprise at being challenged. “Naturally.” There was a hint of hauteur in her voice as she wished Mary a good night.

  For the first time in hours, Mary felt slightly amused. Even a very small reason to smile came as a relief after this ghastly evening. The smile carried her down to the kitchen, where she scrubbed her hands well, collected a hot-water bottle and a candle, and then up the stairs with weary legs and an aching head, and over the threshold of her bedroom.

  Straight into the arms of Angelica Thorold.

  Figuratively speaking, of course. Mary squinted into the room, just able to make out a figure the dim light. She was nearly persuaded that she was hallucinating, but no: Angelica was slumped on the chair beside her bed, still bundled into her hat and cloak. Her attention seemed to be fixed on something in the middle distance. Mary eased the hot-water bottle onto her bed and lit the oil lamp.

  The additional light seemed to rouse Angelica. She blinked, as though waking, and looked vaguely in Mary’s direction. “Oh. Hello.”

  “Hello,” replied Mary, for lack of a better greeting. After a moment, she added, “I’m glad to see you safely back.”

  There was a pause. Then, with visible effort, Angelica said, “I hope I didn’t create cause for alarm. There was— That is, I had a great deal to think about. After the funeral.”

  Mary nodded and sat down carefully, facing Angelica. She took care to move slowly and quietly, half afraid that, like a wild animal, Angelica might suddenly take flight. “It must have been very difficult,” she murmured.

  “What? Oh. Well, yes, it was. Difficult.” Angelica seemed on the verge of saying something else, then abruptly closed her mouth.

  “Was everything adequately prepared?” asked Mary, after a short interval.

  Angelica snorted, although there was little humour in the sound. “Oh! I’m no judge of funerals. All my life, I’ve been considered too delicate to attend. Suddenly, I’m not only the chief mourner; I’m the only mourner.” She sighed. “They buried my father. That is all I know.”

  Bitterness and a tendency to melodrama, noted Mary. Was that better or worse than feeling numb? Which rendered Angelica more likely to fall in with her mother’s designs? She wondered how to broach the delicate subject of Mrs Thorold. “Have you eaten at all?” she asked, although she thought she knew the answer.

  “I beg your pardon?” Angelica shook her head, stirred once again from her private thoughts. “Oh. No. But I’m not hungry.”

  Mary nodded. “Impossible to think of food, I know. But allow me to get a pot of tea.” She stepped into the corridor, and luck was with her: she met a pupil at the top of the staircase. A night-time tea tray was one of the privileges of a teacher or guest, and the girl nodded amiably and went to relay the message to the kitchen maid.

  As she slipped noiselessly back into the room, Mary saw Angelica sprawled face down on her bed, shoulders shaking, weeping quietly, violently, into her hands. Mary watched her in uncomfortable silence. This was the most reprehensible part of a morally questionable job: taking advantage of those who truly needed help. But if Angelica said something useful in these moments of abandon, that would, for Mary, justify the betrayal. It was just possible, Mary supposed, that this scene of grief was also staged – part of a complicated performance in several acts, meant to elicit trust and sympathy. But it was the less likely scenario. After a few moments, she slid back into the corridor, keeping the door ajar. It was enough to listen.

  Even the most devoted daughter had only so much energy for stormy weeping, and after several minutes Angelica’s intensity slackened. From the change in tone, Mary thought Angelica was no longer covering her face. Mary pictured her sprawled prone on the bed, face turned to one side, mopping her face with a handkerchief. There was a distinct sort of lull
– sniffles and sighs and the odd murmur of “Oh, Papa” – but the storm had passed.

  Mary eyed the door. In her experience, this period of calm was the best time in which to gain someone’s confidence. This was the moment in which to appear with a clean handkerchief and a sympathetic ear, and carefully unspool a confession from her weary subject. She pushed down her distaste, forcing herself to think of Mrs Thorold, and prepared to step back into the room. In that moment, she heard Angelica’s voice, soft, but clear and intelligible. It said, “What shall I do, Papa?” A sniffle. “Shall I meet her?”

  The question raised goose bumps across Mary’s neck and arms. She held her breath, waiting two, three, ten eternal seconds, then released it softly.

  Angelica said, “She didn’t come. She could have. She knew it was your funeral, and she didn’t come.” Another pause, then plaintively, as if to the uncaring world: “What kind of wife does that? What kind of mother?” Another charged silence, then a sigh of disgust. “As if talking to myself could help the matter. I’ll end up in an asylum, at this rate.”

  A faint rattle of china and silver at the end of the corridor distracted Mary from this revealing monologue. She glided silently towards the approaching maid and took the heavy tray from her with a smile. “Thank you, Rachel. I’ll take it into the room.” Small Rachel, the newest and youngest of the Academy’s kitchen staff, flexed her arms in relief and vanished back into the depths of the house.

  When Mary entered the bedroom, all calm innocence and steaming tea tray, Angelica was sitting up on the bed, dabbing her swollen eyes with a fresh handkerchief. “That was quick,” she said, and blew her nose with an unladylike honk.

  “Was it?” Mary lifted the covers and discovered a large plate of buttered toast, a deep bowl of beef broth and another plate of jam biscuits. Anne Treleaven must have been hovering near the kitchen when the order came in.

  Angelica made a quavering attempt at a laugh. “If this is what you fetch for somebody who’s not hungry, I can’t wait to see your idea of a square meal.”

  “If you can’t manage it, I will,” promised Mary. “I have an astounding capacity for buttered toast.”

  Angelica was already sinking her teeth into a warm triangle. “Who doesn’t?” When she had drunk the soup and polished off the toast, Angelica sighed with satisfaction. “That felt like a proper schoolgirl feast. We used to have them now and again, at my finishing school.” Her mouth twisted. “Then we’d help each other lace our corsets extra tightly and go to bed. Can you imagine? A stomach full of cakes and sweets, and shallow breathing all night so the stays didn’t dig in so much. Lord, it was agony.”

  “But you did it again,” observed Mary.

  “Every chance we got.”

  In the small lull that followed their laughter, Mary asked, “Do you miss your old life?”

  Angelica considered. “I miss its ease,” she said, slowly. “I never spared a thought for the essentials: eating and staying warm and always having clean clothes to wear. I appreciate those comforts immensely, now. But do I miss the balls and parties, the constant calls upon people who bored me silly, the imperative to marry well? Not at all. I’m far happier eking out a life as a music student in a foreign country where I have only friends of my own choosing. No family to worry about. I’ll be glad to return to Vienna.”

  Mary nodded. But before her sympathy for Angelica could root itself too deeply, she introduced the necessary subject. “Speaking of your journey… Yesterday, I took that advert to the Times, as promised. It’s only a very slim chance that she’s seen it, I know, but I don’t suppose you’ve heard from your mother yet?”

  Angelica flushed quite suddenly, from collar to hairline. “I–I’d quite forgotten about the ad,” she whispered. “Thank you.” She swallowed hard, and Mary’s unanswered question hung in the air between them. After a couple of false starts, Angelica said, “You’re right, of course: it’s quite unlikely that she’d notice it, even if she were in England and reading the newspaper.” An attempt at a laugh. “I’m not certain why I thought it such a good idea at the time.”

  “I encouraged you,” said Mary. “You’d spoken of a strong desire to see your mother.”

  “I did, didn’t I? Those dreams.”

  Mary watched her carefully, the shifting undercurrents of her expression. A strong desire to tell. An equally powerful impulse to secrecy. Guilt. Confusion. Anger. Fear. Longing. She thought she understood how Angelica felt. She’d been in a parallel situation herself not so long ago, with the nightmare reappearance of her father, and she’d kept silent. “Well,” she said, twirling a teaspoon between her fingers, “if she suddenly appears, I’m sure you’ll know what to do.”

  “D’you think so?”

  “Why not?” said Mary. She felt ruthless. “She’s your mother, after all.”

  Angelica looked distinctly queasy. “Yes,” she finally replied. “I suppose she is.”

  Fourteen

  Saturday, 20 October

  Gordon Square, Bloomsbury

  James awoke suddenly, well before sunrise. He blinked and sat up, wondering at the churning excitement in his stomach. It wasn’t unpleasant; it reminded him of Christmas mornings from his childhood, the bone-deep knowledge that lovely things were soon to come. A moment later, his brain caught up with his body. Today was Saturday. Mudie’s day. He had an appointment to meet Mary at the lending library. Today would be their first glimpse of each other in a week. His pulse quickened at the very thought of it. Her face. Her voice. The small weight of her hand upon his forearm.

  He glanced back at his pillow and tried to imagine her there: Mrs James Easton. Dark hair spilling over the crisp white linen. The curves of her body beneath a thin nightdress. The scent of her favourite lemon soap enveloping them both. He trembled. Yet even as his imagination took flight, some dark part of his mind transformed the scene: from bed to bier, from white linen to velvet-lined casket. From warm, soft flesh to cold, rigid limbs. His stomach roiled in an entirely different way and he leapt from the bed, so desperate was he to shake off that malignant fancy.

  In the bathroom he washed with cool water, eager for a rational reason to shiver, and wondered at the sudden turn his imagination had taken. He considered himself realistic, and was keenly aware of the potential dangers he and Mary faced. Yet he wasn’t given to gloom and dark foreboding; he’d always considered such things a waste of time. And now his foolish imagination had cast a pall over what should have been a day of delicious, near-impossible anticipation. He tried not to give it weight, but it troubled him nevertheless.

  Fortunately, Saturday was a working day. There was plenty to keep him busy until the appointed hour. A couple of years ago, Easton Engineering had embraced the new Saturday half-holiday movement, closing the offices at one o’clock in the afternoon. It was good for their employees’ morale, and thus good for business. For James, Saturday afternoons were typically a time in which to catch up on paperwork. Put that way, it sounded dreary, but James didn’t mind. He liked the silent office, the slightly quieter streets. George generally popped in, and they repaired to a chop-house or ordered in meals from the nearby pub, and caught up. They began by briefing each other on how their respective building works were coming along, but it was also the most companionable time of their week. Engineering talk trickled into more general conversation, and James seldom felt closer to his brother than during those informal meetings.

  Before that, however, there was much to do. He breakfasted swiftly and alone – after that tête-à-tête on Sunday morning, George had returned immediately to his late-rising ways – and set out briskly for the office as the sun was still rising. James loved the city at this time, the way the sun burnished the roof-tops and windows, lending it the illusory gleam of a city of gold. On the more frequent days when the sun lurked sullenly behind the clouds, there was still a softness to the light, a sort of hesitancy. At this hour, London was not yet the brash, cacophonous capital of commerce and trade. It was s
omething out of a fairy tale, a shadowy city dense with characters, all awaiting their cue.

  By the time he turned into Great George Street, he felt himself again. He had a new idea about the Bank of England job, but before he could sketch that out, he wanted an update from his chief clerk. Then it was time for a site visit: the bridge project had been delayed yet again, this time by the incorrect delivery of urgently needed materials. He needed to supervise this morning’s delivery in person.

  The main door to the building was slightly ajar – unusual this early in the morning, as James was generally the first person to arrive. He frowned briefly, then shrugged it off: Easton Engineering shared tenancy of the building with two other firms. Someone else must have decided to use the early hours to stride ahead with their work. But as he ascended the stairs to his offices on the first floor, his instincts told him otherwise. Something was wrong here. He was visited by a swift, vivid memory of the night he’d been attacked. He rounded the corner and saw, with little surprise, the unoccupied chair outside the door. Where was the night-watchman?

  Of course, the unguarded office door was unlocked. He examined it quickly. The main bolt had been picked, but not broken. Then, as though the intruder had lost patience, the two smaller locks were smashed. He pushed at the door slowly. His first thought was that it would be weighted closed by the inert body of the watchman. When the door swung freely, however, James’s thoughts of the missing man evaporated in the face of the utter chaos he saw within: the long room was strewn with papers, all pitched about like hay in a stable.