Rivals in the City: A Mary Quinn Mystery

by Y. S. Lee

  They were in the right part of the museum now, moving swiftly through centuries and across continents. As they approached the Far Eastern exhibits (the Orient, the Middle East, the Asian subcontinent, even Turkey, were all jammed together into one category), Mary felt Angelica tense, evidently recalling the amulet and their conversation on that day. Good. Let her remember.

  They swept past a large display of armour and made their way towards the jewel case. Angelica gulped, a small but distinct sound in the perfect silence. The women stared at the amulet, momentarily made still and reverent by its exquisite perfection. Even now, under weak artificial light, its ruby depths held fire captive and its fine gold filigree sparkled an invitation.

  Mary counted to five and then said abruptly, deliberately, “You’ll never sell this on the open market. You must have a private collector in mind; someone to whom you’ve sold similar treasures in the past.”

  Mrs Thorold recovered quickly, but not before Mary saw a flash of irritation cross her face. “That’s enough from you,” she said, waving the revolver slightly in reminder. “Speak only when spoken to, Miss Quinn, there’s a good girl.”

  Angelica blinked and shook her head. It was difficult to know whether she was troubled by the suggestion, or merely irritated by Mary’s efforts.

  “Now, Miss Quinn, you may make yourself useful. Smash that glass, if you please.”

  “Don’t you have the key to the case? I thought you’d be better prepared than this,” replied Mary. In answer, the nose of the gun dug into her spine. Mary swallowed hard and thought of Ivy Murchison’s back.

  “Break the glass.” Mrs Thorold took two steps back, but kept the gun trained upon Mary.

  Mary thought longingly of the cloak she’d left in the residential wing: wrapped around her hand, it would have offered excellent protection against broken glass. Instead, she raised her arm and brought it down on the top of the glass case, using the back of her elbow like a hammer. The glass cracked. She glanced at Mrs Thorold, who nodded, and she struck again. This time the glass shattered into tiny shards, some of which lodged in her sleeve and skin.

  She stepped aside and watched Mrs Thorold reach gingerly into the case for the amulet. She tucked it into a small velvet bag and handed the velvet bag to Angelica, who stared at it for a minute before looping it around her wrist.

  Now, they had each taken part in the theft. Mary had acted under compulsion, it was true, but the fact remained that she had smashed the glass. That violence now marked her body, a form of evidence against her. She did not permit herself to consider under what conditions her body might be found and that evidence interpreted. For the moment, her job was to keep trying to change the balance of power; to feed Angelica’s doubt and uneasiness; to stay alive.

  She turned to Mrs Thorold and asked, “Where next?”

  Eighteen

  The same evening

  The Bank of England, Threadneedle Street

  It was better than the theatre. This evening, in a cordoned-off triangle of the City of London, there waited the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, an entire division of uniformed constables, an army platoon, a detachment of the Military Guard, a unit of the Fire Brigade and the full Court of Directors of the Bank of England. They were all here to shift some gold.

  James Easton stood at the corner of Threadneedle Street and Bartholomew Lane, insensible to the wind and the chilling drizzle that permeated his overcoat. He had no official role in this drama, of course, but had prevailed upon Mr Bentley for permission to observe. Witnessing the transfer of the gold had some bearing on his design work, and for his better understanding of the project requirements. But mainly, it was because he could not possibly rest easy until the gold was safely removed, and the risk created by the theft of the building plans therefore neutralized. It was, he also conceded, a magnificent logistical feat.

  He checked his watch: ten o’clock. As if in confirmation, the bells of St Paul’s Cathedral began to chime. Weary of standing still, James began to pace up and down the street, listening and learning as he went. The removal of the gold was scheduled to begin at eleven, for reasons best known to the Court of Directors, but that now sounded optimistic. There was still a deal of organization remaining: officers to brief, men to instruct, a train of closed wagons to marshal. James was counting the people all around him, trying to work out where they belonged, when his gaze caught on a familiar-looking stranger. He was of middle height and build, with dark gold hair, and a neatly trimmed brown moustache and beard. Handsome. He stood attentively under an umbrella, quite alone. James couldn’t think where they might have met, yet found himself persuaded that he somehow knew this gentleman.

  As though privy to James’s perplexity, the man glanced over and winked at him. James’s first impulse was to check over his shoulder, but there was nobody behind him. A faint blush rose to his cheeks. He didn’t know quite how to respond, except to avert his gaze. When, a few moments later he risked another look, the blond gentleman was deep in conversation with a police officer. James frowned. Not just any police officer: the Commissioner himself. Where had he met this man? They weren’t on amicable terms, he felt, but couldn’t for the life of him remember why. His memory was generally excellent, and this lapse troubled him greatly. The conversation concluded, the two men nodded briskly to one another and then the mysterious gentleman was striding purposefully towards James.

  James swallowed hard and stood his ground.

  “Thank you for the note,” murmured the man.

  James blinked into feline green eyes and suppressed a gasp. He was silent for several seconds, absorbing the immense transformation that a beard, moustache and manly bearing could effect. Then he cleared his throat. “Would you otherwise have known about this evening’s plan?” he asked, in a tolerably natural voice.

  “Yes,” said Felicity Frame. “But I appreciate the thought. I take it you’ve spoken to Miss Quinn about my bona fides?”

  “She says you are trustworthy.”

  “I am honoured,” said Felicity. “I hope that this will be the beginning of a productive partnership between our firms.”

  James inclined his head non-committally. “What name are you using, at the moment?” he asked.

  Felicity accepted the change of subject with grace. “Fiske. Frederick Fiske.”

  His next question – there were many – was interrupted by a small commotion at the western side of the cordoned-off street. A pair of burly policemen were pressing back a woman on horseback, with limited success. She sat erect in the saddle, spectacles flashing in the gaslight. Her voice was strong and clear. “Constables, I must speak to Mr Fiske. It is a matter of utmost urgency!”

  At the first syllable of the woman’s voice, Felicity drew an audible breath. Her head swivelled round and her expression, always so elegant and impervious, sagged for a moment. Then she nodded to James. “If you’ll excuse me…”

  James watched her approach the horse, saw the female rider dismount with more speed than grace. They conferred for half a minute, heads close together. Then Felicity nodded, spun on her heel and raced towards the Commissioner of Police. The rider was about to turn her horse when she caught sight of James. She paused. James still couldn’t see her features, but anybody who received prompt obedience from Felicity Frame was a woman to reckon with. He ran towards her.

  “You don’t know me,” she said, “but I have Mary’s safety at heart. She is at the British Museum with Mrs Thorold. Come with me now.”

  James stared at her for several agonized seconds. It was the perfect trick. What stronger appeal could a person make to him, in this moment? What better way to lead him into the unknown? He searched the woman’s expression: inscrutable grey eyes behind steel-rimmed spectacles, the jaw of a person accustomed to obedience. He glanced back towards Felicity, who was absorbed in animated conversation with the Commissioner.

  “Have you a mount?” asked Anne, resuming hers. “You needn’t trust my riding.”

&n
bsp; James already had his hand on the pommel, his foot in the stirrup. “Too late,” he said, swinging up behind her. “You can explain on the way.”

  It was exceedingly uncomfortable, riding on the hind edge of a lady’s side-saddle, but nothing could have distracted James from Anne’s explanation. With the theft of the Bank plans from James’s office, Mrs Thorold had effectively diverted the entire security staff of the British Museum to the Bank of England. She was at the museum now, intent on robbery and assisted by her daughter. Mary had sent for assistance more than two hours ago but when Anne first turned up at Scotland Yard, she had found only a skeleton staff. All the officials she knew – the ones familiar with the Thorold case, the ones inclined to trust the word of a lone woman who burst into the office and demanded a large-scale response at the peaceful-looking museum – were already at the Bank. Anne had thus been forced to ride on to the Bank to obtain help.

  “And then you asked Mrs Frame to relay the message?” asked James. “Why not tell the Commissioner yourself?” Before Anne could reply, he twisted violently in the saddle, behind her.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Anne.

  “Let me down,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the museum.”

  Before Anne had fully halted, James was on the ground. “I’ll meet you there,” he said again. And then he was off, chasing after a figure walking eastwards along Holborn.

  “Wait!” called James. “Mr Ching?”

  The man turned slowly. “Who are you?” He remained in the shadows and his posture was wary.

  “James Easton.” The name clearly meant nothing to the man, a fact that rankled. Nevertheless, this was not the time for misplaced vanity. “You are the prizefighter, Mr Ching, are you not?”

  The man paused. “Why do you ask?”

  James drew a deep breath. Now that he was about to phrase his question, it seemed like an absurd assumption. Felicity had mentioned Mary’s sudden intense friendship with a young Chinese man, and he’d leapt to the obvious conclusion. This was an impulsive waste of time. And yet, here he was. Anne Treleaven was fast receding into the distance, and Mary was still alone. With Mrs Thorold. James swallowed his pride and said, “In the name of Mary Quinn. You are close to her, I believe.” No response. James wished he could discern Ching’s expression in the darkness. “She is in danger. Will you come with me, to help her?”

  The man did not hesitate. “Show me the way.”

  The two men set off towards the museum at a run. Despite James’s height advantage, Lang (as James was learning to call him) had a smooth, rapid stride that enabled him to keep pace. His fitness showed: as they ran, he was able to talk without difficulty, explaining not only his name but the fact that he’d expected to meet Mary that evening, at seven o’clock. When she had not appeared, even after his prizefight had concluded, Lang’s curiosity was piqued. He remembered her sudden urgency at the Bank of England the last time they’d met, and had thought to begin his search for her there.

  The museum was less than two miles away, James calculated. Anne was riding at a moderate trot, the fastest speed possible without laming the horse on a dark night in the unevenly surfaced streets. If he and Lang could maintain this pace – and there was no reason they could not, unless one of them put his foot in a pothole – the three of them would arrive at roughly the same time, in twelve minutes or so. Felicity might need five minutes to communicate her needs to the Commissioner, and another five for the marshalling of sufficient men. Then it might take the police half an hour, or a little more, to march quickly to the museum. Mary would have some help within the quarter-hour, and a small regiment within the hour.

  James could only hope that was soon enough.

  Nineteen

  The British Museum, Bloomsbury

  In theory, Mary was worried, guilty, anxious, perplexed and angry about tonight’s events. She worried about being powerless to stop Mrs Thorold, felt guilty for her own part in the theft of the amulet, was consumed with anxiety for the safety of others, perplexed by the continued absence of any sort of police presence, and absolutely livid that Mrs Thorold seemed, thus far, likely to get away with her nefarious plan. In practice, however, Mary was merely numb. She followed Mrs Thorold from display to display, watched her select only the most precious items and listened with increasing impatience for any sounds of police arrival. Most of all she waited, with small hope, for a chance to intervene.

  Mary was also learning a great deal from this mistress of crime. Watching Mrs Thorold at work was rather like an intimate and advanced tutorial in the art of theft. Mrs Thorold had clearly researched the pieces she wanted to steal, selecting them as much for size and ease of concealment as for value. For how long had she been planning this heist and living amidst the items she planned to take? Most of the prizes she chose were unique, valuables that were far more precious in their present state and would not reward melting down or recutting. This meant she had either one extremely rich and voracious client ready to buy from her, or else was connected to a network of antiques dealers who specialized in stolen goods. And, of course, there was the question of how the Thorolds would escape. Mary was genuinely curious on this front, and she wondered if Angelica, in her tremulous acceptance of the present venture, had yet considered its complexities.

  “Tomorrow is Sunday,” Mary mused aloud as they trotted along. Mrs Thorold had been silent for some time, and Mary had an obscure sense that they were nearing the completion of her tidy project. “There are few trains running, and those that do are merely local lines, for the benefit of working people on their Sunday excursions. There are no steam packets, of course, or regular ferries across the Channel. Is it possible that you’re planning to go into hiding in England, with all your booty?” She watched Angelica from the corner of her eye as she spoke, but Angelica failed even to blink. She’d not spoken for nearly an hour, ever since accepting Mrs Thorold’s assurance that the museum staff were alive. What was going through her mind?

  “Do you really think I’d forget to provide for something as essential as our escape?” asked Mrs Thorold. She sounded amused rather than offended. Possibly she, too, was finding the silence wearying and welcomed a little light banter, so long as she was in charge of the subject matter. “I thank you for your concern, Miss Quinn, but we shall manage very nicely, even on the Sabbath.” They rounded a corner and she led them steadily on, towards an exterior doorway. She transferred the revolver to her left hand as she unlocked the door with her right, then returned it to her dominant hand and ushered Mary outside into the freezing drizzle.

  The air smelled of mud and rain, and Mary breathed deeply of it. She’d not realized just how claustrophobic she found Mrs Thorold’s dark, silent museum of the unconscious until this moment. Mrs Thorold closed the door behind them, then pointed Mary down a narrow flight of stairs that took them below ground level. Mary remained still and unwilling. Nothing good could come of descending those steps.

  “Come now, Miss Quinn,” said Mrs Thorold briskly. “Nothing to be afraid of. It’s one of the underground storage chambers. There are one or two more items I must retrieve before we are on our way.”

  Mary couldn’t tear her gaze from the solid wooden door, the neat brickwork arch that framed it. Her every instinct resisted the idea. “If Angelica and I precede you down,” she said slowly, “there won’t be room for you to open the door.”

  Mrs Thorold frowned, but soon saw that Mary was correct. “How thoughtful of you to observe that. I must confess that when I made my calculations for this evening’s entertainment, I failed to anticipate having a tourist along on the journey.” She considered her choices, gazing for a long moment at the beautiful, expressionless face of her daughter.

  Mary held her breath. In this unscripted moment lay her only chance. Perhaps.

  “Angelica,” said Mrs Thorold, “pray take these keys and unlock the door.”

  Mary swallowed. It would have been much better had Mrs Thorold given Angelica the revolver, but that was
too much to hope for. The present arrangement was still deadly, with the gun firmly in Mrs Thorold’s hands, but it might be the best opportunity she got.

  After a brief hesitation, Angelica took the key ring from her mother’s upturned palm and descended the half-flight of steps to the locked door. As the lantern bobbed down into the stairwell with Angelica, Mary remained still but slid her gaze towards Mrs Thorold. It was more difficult to read her expression in this new degree of darkness, but Mary clearly saw her attention flit towards Angelica, checking on her progress. Good.

  “Your turn, Miss Quinn,” said Mrs Thorold. Her parlour voice sat oddly with the gun she waved in Mary’s direction, but Mary was growing accustomed to the paradox. She turned to follow Angelica, who was apparently finding it difficult to manage both lantern and keys. One step, and then another. Each tread was slick with mud, moss, mildew. Mrs Thorold was directly behind her.

  Mary was mid-stride, descending to the third step, when Angelica gasped and the keys fell to the ground with a surprisingly loud jingle. Here it was: the decisive moment. Mary pivoted on her left foot and twisted her body round, seizing the thick folds of Mrs Thorold’s skirt and pulling with all her might. Mrs Thorold’s feet lost purchase, she slipped onto her back and the gun fired, lodging a bullet high in the stonework of the museum’s exterior wall. Mary leapt onto Mrs Thorold’s prone form, scrabbling after the gun in the near-darkness.

  Mrs Thorold kicked wildly, tangled in the cage of her crinoline. She seemed breathless and disoriented, but instinctively held tight to the gun. Mary caught her weapon hand and struck it hard against the stone steps. The gun discharged again, at close quarters this time, deafening them both and blasting brick-dust into their eyes and noses. Coughing and crying from the dust, Mary seized Mrs Thorold’s hand in both of hers and banged it a second time, then a third, against the stairs. She felt a sudden, sharp pain in her forearm and realized that Mrs Thorold was biting her. Mary raised her uninjured left elbow and did what she ought to have done earlier: she knocked Mrs Thorold unconscious with two decisive blows. At last, the gun clattered out of Mrs Thorold’s grasp and bumped its way down the steps. Mary snatched at it, but it was too dark: she could hear, but not see, its downward journey.