by Y. S. Lee
When Mrs Thorold spoke, her voice was buoyant with satisfaction. “Thank you. I do not believe your confidence shall be misplaced, my dear, but I shall first explain to you the reasoning behind my decisions.
“As Englishwomen, I suspect you and I have always had an unthinking confidence in our nation. The excellence of our policemen, the protection of the common law and the essential fairness of the judiciary were things we took for granted. So far as we deigned to think of them, we were grateful to live in such an enlightened country, especially in comparison to the bloody violence that wracked the Continent less than a generation ago. For me – and, I suspect, for you – that illusion was abruptly smashed two years ago when your father was arrested, disgraced, jailed and indirectly murdered by the very government we’d trusted.” Mrs Thorold paused here, but Angelica made no response. “It was this betrayal that left me homeless, and worse than a widow. The only thing that stood between me and utter destitution was the handful of jewels I’d managed to hide – illegally, of course. Even my journey to France, where I desperately sought to recover my health after such a brutal series of shocks, was considered against the law, for not content with obliterating my husband and his life’s work, the police also sought to destroy me with their preposterous and utterly impossible accusations.” She was panting now, in her vehemence, and still Angelica remained silent, motionless.
“Now, on the brink of starvation once more, I seek to support myself. I do not seek the comfort and plenty to which I was born and to which I was accustomed, but merely to keep body and soul together. I find it impossible. There is no honest work I can perform, nobody who will employ me, no honest opportunity available to a lady of my age and education and talents. I have made up my mind, Angelica, that I cannot live in a country such as this; a country that sought to crush me under its heel; a country that cast me to the dogs. And so, tomorrow, I depart its shores for the last time. I shall never return.”
Despite her knowledge of Mrs Thorold’s true history, and despite her ready scepticism, Mary found herself somewhat moved by this florid speech. It was too easy to imagine a false accusation that would effortlessly destroy a life. After all, Mary had herself been accused, tried, convicted. The law had been just as harsh and unforgiving as Mrs Thorold made it out to be. But she mustn’t allow personal feeling to sway her judgement. As it happened, Mrs Thorold was guilty of the crimes with which she was charged, and that changed the portrait entirely: from one of pathos and female disadvantage to one of an expert manipulator who would say, and probably do, whatever was necessary to achieve her ends.
“That does not surprise me, Mamma,” said Angelica in low, emotional tones. “I, too, find it easier to live abroad and alone because of what happened to Papa. But I remain entirely in the dark as to how you intend to support yourself in France. Surely the same obstacles exist in that country? Unless…” She suddenly sat bolt upright and swivelled towards her mother, voice rising in her excitement. “Unless you came back to London to retrieve some jewels or gold you had hidden away somewhere? Perhaps they are even in our house – the old house, I mean – in Cheyne Walk?”
“That would be apt, in a fairy tale,” said Mrs Thorold. “And yet you are not so far from the truth. Are you certain you wish to hear me out, daughter? My tale is still largely untold, and you may go away from here as innocent as you came, if I stop now.”
Once again, Mary couldn’t help but hear an echo of her own life: the moment when Anne and Felicity asked if, as an agent, she wished to hear more about a case. The point at which she was entrusted with dangerous information.
Angelica’s consideration was brief but agonizing to Mary. Much as she wished Angelica to follow her own conscience, this was the best opportunity Mary would ever have to learn how Mrs Thorold thought. Finally, Angelica released a pent-up breath. “Yes, Mamma,” she said in an admirably steady voice. “I do.”
“Very well,” said her mother. She paused for a moment, and Mary was tempted to creep forward, beyond the protection of the broad tree trunk. What was Mrs Thorold about to do? Half a moment later, she heard a swish of skirts, the crunch of a boot on gravel. She immediately shrank back against the tree trunk, trying to slow the pounding of her heart.
“Mamma, where are you going?”
“I mistrust this spot. It’s overlooked.”
“It’s the most open bench in the square,” said Angelica, impatience in her voice. “There’s absolutely nothing around us, all the way back to that tree.”
“And behind the tree?”
Mary tensed, ready for flight.
Angelica sighed. “Mamma, you are stalling again. Pray do me the courtesy of speaking to me frankly, as an adult, instead of toying with my emotions.”
Mrs Thorold seemed to resettle herself on the bench with a sigh. “You remember your solemn oath.”
“Yes.”
“My intention is this: before I shake the dust of this country from my sandals, I shall take what I need from its coffers. I shall perform an act of restoration to our family, of true justice. And in doing so, I shall ensure my future – and yours, too.”
Angelica was swift to slice through her pompous rhetoric. “Mamma, you are talking of theft?”
“It requires a certain Robin Hood morality, I grant you,” said Mrs Thorold, “but once one opens one’s mind and sees things from all sides, it is the only possible solution.”
“But how on earth…? Mamma, are you feverish? These are the ravings of a–a–a person who is unwell,” Angelica finished, limpingly.
“A madwoman or a lunatic? Oh no, my dear. I promise you I am of sound mind.”
“Then … how? How can a lone woman, without any experience or training, steal enough valuables to make such a colossal risk worthwhile?”
Mary could hear the smile in Mrs Thorold’s voice. “In being just that: a humble, underestimated lone woman.” Again, that jolt through Mary’s body, as Mrs Thorold’s wickedness mapped itself onto her own life, her own beliefs. The skill of the overlooked female: that was the central premise of the Agency, the reason for its many brilliant and unlikely successes. And now Mrs Thorold was intent on exploiting it for criminal ends. Perhaps this ought to have come as no surprise, for she had done much the same thing two years earlier, as the apparently invalid wife of a rich merchant.
Mrs Thorold reached into her pocket and retrieved something small and gleaming: a gold watch. “I shall not explain the details in this moment. Suffice it to say, I have a plan thoroughly worked out, and every confidence that it will succeed. I know what I want to take, where it is, how securely it is guarded and its value as a stolen object without provenance. By sunrise, I shall be halfway across the Channel. And I shall be a free woman at last.” She paused. “The question is, Angelica Maria Thorold, will you also be free?”
Angelica’s silence was maddeningly ambiguous. Was she thunderstruck? Calculating? Tempted? Appalled? Mary scarcely dared breathe as she awaited a response.
Eventually, Angelica spoke coolly and quietly. “If you are asking for my help, Mamma, I shall need to know more about your plans. I cannot possibly agree to help you blindly.”
“I do not require help, child; I am entirely prepared to act alone. Indeed, I had expected to do so, until we so fortuitously met again. But as your mother, and a lady who understands the complexities of being alone in the world, I am offering you an opportunity. A business venture. A partnership, if you will.”
“Thorold and Daughter, instead of Thorold and Son?”
“Just so.” A brief pause. Then, “I need hardly enumerate the advantages to you, but perhaps I shall, in any case. An assured income, much larger than the present pittance you earn by teaching music. Independence in the world. An alternative to the stage, should you decide that such a life is not for you.”
“That is all very tempting,” said Angelica slowly, “but you omit what would be, for me, the greatest incentive.”
“And what is that?” Mrs Thorold sounded genui
nely curious.
“Family. Not being entirely alone in the world.”
A brief pause. “Then it appears that I have your answer.”
“Not yet,” said Angelica, firmly. “As I said, I need to know more.”
“What more would you know?”
“I need your solemn oath, Mamma, that nobody will be harmed in this scheme of yours. I will not have blood on my hands. And I need to hear the plan, in detail, and satisfy myself that it is rational. If I am to risk not only my music and my career, but also my neck, I must be a full partner in the scheme.”
Mrs Thorold took her time, considering. Then, very slowly, she nodded. “All your requirements are reasonable. I give you my word that no blood will be shed. And I appreciate your caution: I expected no less. But to answer that question, we must walk on.” She rose, a little stiffly, and extended her arm to Angelica. “Shall we?”
Angelica hesitated for only a moment before standing and linking arms with her mother. “Yes. Let us go.”
Sixteen
As mother and daughter returned to the gravelled path, Mary stretched her arms and legs with slow, small movements. Mrs Thorold wasn’t the only one who felt the cold. Mary’s first thought was of immediate action: did she and her shadow-agent have the strength to overpower Mrs Thorold and bring her to a police station? They had the element of surprise, which they would need. Mrs Thorold was almost certainly armed.
Yet it would be more effective, by far, to catch her in the commission of her next crime. If the old charges were dismissed for any reason, or if James’s testimony against her was somehow void, it would be better to have fresh evidence against her. Furthermore, Mary didn’t quite believe Mrs Thorold’s protestations that she was prepared to work entirely alone. It was possible, in fact, that Mary and her fellow agent had walked into a loose snare, and that the moment they moved against Mrs Thorold, her collaborators would spring the trap. With her heart racing like this, all senses stretched to their limits, Mary sometimes found it difficult to distinguish between legitimate suspicion and rank paranoia.
She watched the Thorolds walk away at a dignified but steady pace, yet she continued to linger on the path, in plain sight. Within a minute, she was joined by a person in rough trousers and sailor’s peacoat. “I couldn’t hear a word they said,” was the first thing the stranger said, resettling her cloth cap.
“Mrs Thorold asked Angelica to join her in a large robbery. Angelica is considering,” said Mary.
“Where are they going now?”
The Bank of England, of course. And yet Mary refrained from leaping to such a conclusion. She’d had no further confirmation on that matter, from this evening’s work. Once she had that knowledge, Mary could safely summon a constable, a squadron of constables, the whole bloody army, if that’s what it took. Until she was certain, though, it was just four unaccompanied women trotting briskly down Montague Street on a Saturday night. “We’ll follow them and see,” said Mary. “When I give you the signal, report to the Agency as fast as possible.”
The woman nodded and evaporated into the shadows once more.
At the end of Montague Street, Mary expected the Thorolds to veer eastwards, to the City. The swiftest route to the Bank of England would take them through Holborn, past Newgate and St Paul’s. However, they instead turned west into Great Russell Street. Mary’s gut tightened.
After a minute, the Thorolds stopped before the museum’s high, brass-spiked fence, mother pointing out something to daughter. Mary passed them at a brisk walk, staying silent and far enough away that she was only another pedestrian hurrying home of an evening. When she reached the corner of Museum Street, just opposite the main gates, Mary slowed her steps. There was a shallow doorstep a few yards down, the entrance to a tightly shuttered shop, where she could take shelter from the wind. And if the Thorolds turned eastwards, as she still anticipated, she would be once more behind them.
Two minutes passed, and then five. Mary scanned the rest of the street, but it was a murk of shadows and fog. She was just about to set off in an easterly direction when a pair of women presented themselves before the immense gates. Mary caught her breath.
The museum was closed, of course. By four o’clock, all visitors would have been shooed out and the two enormous pairs of gates locked until Monday morning. Yet in the gloom, she could see the taller figure, Mrs Thorold, in conversation with the turnkey. Mary frowned. This seemed entirely unorthodox, Mrs Thorold’s offering herself to a person’s notice. She wasn’t the sort who appreciated witnesses. And what on earth did she hope to accomplish at the museum, after hours? But less than half a minute later, the guard unlocked the small, human-sized entrance within the larger gate. Then, dragging his heels as though exceedingly weary, he locked the gate once more and collapsed into the guard’s box, while the Thorolds vanished into the foggy courtyard.
Astonishing. Mary stared into the mists, as though seeing into the depths of the museum – not to mention Mrs Thorold’s mind – were merely a matter of concentration. What on earth…? And then, quite suddenly, the answers tumbled into place in her cold and sluggish brain.
It wasn’t the Bank, at all.
Perhaps it never had been. All the titbits about Mrs Thorold’s interest there, the gentleman with the mole on the end of his nose, the highly privileged contract extended to Easton Engineering, the theft of the plans from James’s office: they were all part of a blind, a cunningly laid diversion. And it had so very nearly worked. It was only Mrs Thorold’s meeting with Angelica this evening that had led Mary to the real target: the British Museum. Had Mrs Thorold been able to resist recruiting her daughter… Mary shivered. Significant events so often turned on casual coincidence, sudden impulse. But this time, the good fortune was hers. She suddenly understood not only where and when, but the all-important how.
Mrs Thorold must know the gatekeeper because she worked at the museum! It was an inside position that granted her frequent access to the museum’s collections, the knowledge with which to plan a successful heist and the leisure to pull it off when the building was closed to the public. The museum had a staff of curators and experts on any number of arcane subjects, of course, but as a woman, Mrs Thorold could never hope to attain such a post. No, she had to be one of the domestics who lived on site: maids, cooks, housekeepers, a governess. This was what Mrs Thorold had referred to when she spoke of being a humble, underestimated lone woman. And they were all housed in the vast, private wings of the museum.
Mary waited another minute, allowing the guard time to resettle himself. She couldn’t see movement in the other sentry box, but assumed that it was manned nonetheless. She began to walk along Great Russell Street at a crisp but ladylike pace. As she passed through the yellowish haze of the nearest street lamp, she raised her right hand and brushed it across the brim of her bonnet: a small gesture, the removal of a distracting hair or thread. It was also the signal for her colleague to report their location to the Agency.
As Mary tucked herself into the next available doorway, maintaining a clear view of the entrance gates, she felt a distinct sense of calm. It was now a little after eight o’clock. By her calculation, a good runner needed half an hour to reach the Agency’s headquarters in Acacia Road, over slick cobblestones in the ill-lit streets. Then Anne Treleaven would have to present herself at Scotland Yard to explain the situation, and there would be a brief wait for a unit of policemen to be dispatched. Mary could expect to be here alone for at least an hour and a quarter, and likely a bit longer. Then there was the trifling matter of how they might apprehend Mrs Thorold. For now, however, she pushed those thoughts away with fatalistic serenity. This was a case with exceptionally few certainties, but a fresh one now emerged: the end was in sight.
Seventeen
After roughly three-quarters of an hour, Mary became aware of footsteps in the middle distance. In the darkness and fog, her ears offered more information than her eyes: the sound came from a pair of steel pattens ringing unevenly o
n the cobbles. She was therefore not surprised to discern a woman, wrapped in a shawl, just inside the museum gates. She rapped briefly on the guardhouse and said, quite loudly, “Coffee, Mr Welland.”
After a few seconds, the turnkey emerged. “Eh?” From his tone, it seemed that he had been napping.
“Coffee, you sorry beggar,” said the woman. Her tone was impatient, but fundamentally affectionate; an elder sister doing him a favour. “Don’t say you couldn’t use a little waking up.”
“You’re a saviour, Mrs Price,” he muttered, cupping his hands around the mug. “Good Lord, I feel like death warmed over. What a night to be the only one on guard.”
“What, they took Mr Entwistle with them, too?” She jerked her head towards the other guard hut.
“Aye. Matter of urgency in the City, they said.” He drank deeply of the coffee and groaned, but it didn’t sound like satisfaction. “Oh. God. I swear, my insides are on fire.”
“I told Cook them prawns was too far gone to be served at dinner,” said Mrs Price, in waspish tones. “Do you think she’d listen to me? Oh, no: she’d as soon poison us all as waste a scrap of the upstairs leavings. You didn’t eat any prawns, did you, Mr Welland?”
“No prawns,” he croaked. “I don’t hold with foreign food.” He raised the mug to his lips, then suddenly lowered it. “This ain’t right,” he said suddenly. “I never had food poisoning like this before.”
“No call to be such a baby about it,” retorted Mrs Price. “I’m feeling half-dead myself, and don’t get me started on the state of that lot upstairs. They’ll want nursing all night, and who else is to do it, I ask you?”
Welland raised his mug once more, with unsteady hands. He gulped, flinched and clutched his abdomen. “You don’t think it’s the dysentery, do you? I seen that go through a building like wildfire.”
“Don’t say that.” Mrs Price shivered and huddled deeper into her shawl. Then, sharply, “You drinking that coffee or not? I got to get back inside.”