The Agency: A Spy in the House

by Y. S. Lee

  Once again, Mary tried to assess his degree of drunkenness. It was possible that he was always half drunk, she supposed. Or that he used its likeness to his advantage. . . . His eyes were still shiny with gin, but a distinct intelligence flickered within.

  “What’s going on in that little head of yours?” he demanded suddenly. “You’ve a particular look in your eyes.”

  She looked down modestly. “I’m only trying to think, Mr. Brown, whether you intend to report your suspicions to my employer.”

  “I might . . . but perhaps not, if I get too accustomed to being Mr. Brown.” He snorted mischievously. “You’re a cool customer, girlie — most females would be pleading with me now, not to tell. Ain’t you the slightest bit afraid of me, now?”

  Mary’s eyes were round and innocent as they met his. “Why, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  He snorted but didn’t seem annoyed. “You and Mrs. T, both.” He nodded at her look of surprise. “Aye, the mistress. Got your attention now, haven’t I?”

  “You had it before, sir.”

  Brown chuckled again. “Cheeky sausage.”

  Mary held her breath. The gleam in his eyes had changed somewhat — still impudent but less lecherous. She hoped. “I believe you’re telling tales, Mr. Brown,” she said smoothly. “I can’t imagine Mrs. Thorold would do anything inappropriate.” Surely he meant Miss Thorold?

  “Then you tell me where she’s trotting off to, every blooming afternoon!”

  “For her medical treatments surely?”

  “Aye, that’s what she gives out,” he sneered. “But it’s a funny lady who goes to a quack instead of havin’ house calls!”

  “Mrs. Thorold sees a number of specialists.”

  Brown made a dismissive noise. “I never knew a ladies’ physician to set up shop in Pimlico, girlie! She’s not being physicked.” His eyebrows rose suggestively. “Not in the professional way, that is.”

  Mary’s jaw dropped. “So, you believe Mrs. Thorold is having an affair?” It was a daft question — Brown could hardly have meant anything else — but it was the most improbable thing she’d heard in some time. The sighing, napping, slow-moving lady of the house? The woman who called her husband of two decades Mr. Thorold?

  And yet . . . while it seemed more than improbable — impossible, rather — there was a perverse logic behind Brown’s suggestion. Why indeed was Mrs. Thorold so eager to drive out to see her physicians when she could barely summon the strength to cut her own meat at dinnertime? She seldom went out for any other reason. She had no friends. Her dressmaker and milliner came to the house. But her medical advisors forced her to come to them? That, too, was improbable. An illicit affair, as Brown hinted, was the likeliest explanation.

  Unless there was a third possibility. . . .

  A soft thud to her left made them both jump. Cass stood at the end of the corridor, bucket in one reddened hand, a rag in the other. Her expression was one of extreme interest rather than her usual surliness.

  Mary cursed inwardly. Becoming chummy with the coachman wasn’t always a sackable offense, but add to that gossiping about her employer . . .

  Turning back to Brown, she said firmly, “I refuse to believe that, sir. Excuse me.”

  “Silly cow,” muttered Brown.

  She didn’t bother turning about to see whether it was aimed at her or at Cass. At this point, she thought she quite deserved it.

  “Are you going for a walk, Miss Thorold?”

  Angelica jumped, dropping her kid gloves on the hall carpet. “Miss Quinn! How you startled me!” She was wearing an unfashionably deep bonnet that concealed most of her face, but the bit that Mary could see looked distinctly flushed.

  Mary waited for a reply, but none came. “It’s a sweltering day,” she observed. “Not very nice for a stroll.” She wasn’t exaggerating. The air was dense and stifling, even in the garden, and the intense humidity and thick skies promised a ferocious thunderstorm.

  “It’s not so bad,” Angelica said quickly. “I thought I’d pop out for just a little while.” This was nonsense. The girl never walked if she could drive, and just a quarter of an hour ago, Mrs. Thorold had gone out in the carriage.

  “May I come with you?” asked Mary. “Your energy puts me to shame. And I do feel as though I neglect you sometimes.”

  Angelica’s face contorted. “No! Er . . . that is, I know you take quite long walks, and I’ll be going quite slowly. . . .”

  It was too tempting. “Oh, I’m quite happy to walk slowly,” Mary assured her. “And I do hope you’ll forgive me for suggesting it, but is it proper for you to walk alone?”

  Angelica began to sputter helplessly.

  Mary watched her paralysis for a few moments, then took pity on the girl. “I don’t suppose it could do much harm. . . .” she decided nonchalantly. “I shan’t make a pest of myself, Miss Thorold, but perhaps I shall go for a little stroll myself, after all. Have you any errands I might perform for you?”

  If Angelica Thorold had been capable of gratitude, it would have shone from her face. As it was, her expression lightened and she said, “Oh! Not today, thank you, Miss Quinn.” She bolted for the front door. Then, one hand on the handle, she turned back to Mary. “Er — Miss Quinn?”

  “Yes, Miss Thorold?”

  “As we’re both going for little walks . . . perhaps if Mama asks . . . we could allow her to think we did so together?”

  “What harm could it do?”

  A tight little smile stretched Angelica’s cheeks for a moment, and then was gone. Mary gave the girl a two-minute head start, then slipped outside after her. Angelica had lied, of course: she was walking rather quickly indeed, and it was a good thing she had only two minutes’ lead. Already, she was a little dab of color on the distant sidewalk, identifiable only by the distinctive azure shade of her gown.

  No matter. Mary closed the gap to about fifty yards. It was early afternoon, and the streets of Chelsea teemed with horses and carriages, delivery men, fruit mongers, flower and match girls, street urchins, dogs, and other forms of life.

  The two women walked northeast toward Sloane Square. Angelica attracted surprisingly little attention, considering her expensive dress and secretive manner. Mary was grateful. She could hardly watch Angelica get into trouble without coming to her assistance. At the corner of Sloane Square, Angelica halted abruptly. The man behind her nearly lost the contents of his wheelbarrow in an attempt to avoid running her down and growled at the girl for her sudden stop. Angelica scarcely seemed to hear him, she was scanning the square with such intensity.

  Mary drifted to a discreet place behind a pair of flower girls who were gossiping loudly with a charwoman. She hadn’t long to wait. A minute later, a slim, fair-haired gentleman touched Angelica’s elbow, making her start violently. A small smile blossomed on Mary’s lips: Michael Gray. The smile disappeared an instant later when Michael hailed a hansom cab and handed Angelica up.

  With the pace of traffic, Mary easily kept them in sight while on foot. She wished she could hear their conversation. Did the hansom offer sufficient privacy for Michael, or did they have a destination? And what on earth were they discussing? If this were a novel, they would be secretly, desperately, in love. It would be against the rules, of course, since Michael was poor and Angelica all but engaged to George Easton. But it would also explain Angelica’s jealousy over Michael’s flirtation with the paid companion. Perhaps they were now planning how to tell Mr. and Mrs. Thorold about their romance. The scenario seemed possible, although perhaps a bit of a cliché.

  But — Mary blinked and nearly stumbled as a second possibility struck her: both could be involved in Thorold’s illegal business! Never mind who was leading whom. It too made sense. Michael brought Angelica delicate information from the counting house; they now had to modify their plans because of this projected holiday in Brighton; and they maintained a cool social distance before the family in order to prevent suspicion. And who better than Angelica to carry off an
unlikely financial deal? It was the Scrimshaw Principle in action: nobody paid attention to women, especially women in subordinate positions. Michael was automatically suspect as Thorold’s right hand. Mrs. Thorold, whether invalid or cunning adulteress, was entirely uninterested in her family. But Angelica was perfect — the rich, idle daughter of a merchant with nothing in particular to accomplish and all the time in the world in which to do it. Her viciousness — the evidence of which scarred Mary’s left hand — seemed entirely logical, in this light. Really, Mary chided herself, as a member of the Agency, she was the last person who should underestimate a woman’s capabilities.

  It was a long conference. Mary followed the cab on a meandering route through Kensington and around the parks. She contemplated a bold move — Why, hello, Miss Thorold! Mr. Gray! Fancy running into you two, together, on Rotten Row! — but decided against it. She needed more information before she could act.

  After three-quarters of an hour, the hansom drew up. Michael jumped out, paid the cabman, and issued some firm instructions. Then the cab rattled off, presumably toward Cheyne Walk. Michael walked eastward. His hands were thrust in his trouser pockets, and everything about his posture suggested that he was satisfied with the outcome of the conference. Was it worth following him? What if he went somewhere else before returning to the counting house?

  She followed him to the edge of St. James’s Park, where he suddenly consulted his watch, put it away hastily, and accelerated his pace southward. Mary relaxed. His meeting with Angelica had taken longer than anticipated; he now had to return to Thorold’s offices. It was a relief not to have her attention fixed so strenuously on a target. She sighed happily, looked about her, and realized that the soup-like miasma that clung so tenaciously in Chelsea had dissipated here in the park. It was a good omen.

  It must have been a successful meeting: for the rest of the day, Angelica floated about the house in a cloud of good humor, playing scraps of Mozart and humming dreamily. It was a marked change from her usual sulks and tantrums.

  The family had just finished dinner when Mr. Thorold cleared his throat. “My dears, I have something to say to you.”

  The ladies put down their dessert spoons, and Michael took a gulp of wine.

  “Town is most unpleasant at the moment,” said Thorold. “I am very concerned about the effects of the heat and the miasma on your health.” He paused to cast a worried glance at Mrs. Thorold. “I have arranged for your removal to Brighton, where the air is pure. You will depart on Saturday and remain there for the summer.”

  His announcement met with perfect silence. Angelica, whom Mary watched from beneath her lashes, feigned surprise rather well. Her eyes went round, and she pressed one hand to her throat. At the foot of the table, Mrs. Thorold’s lips thinned into a flat line. The look she directed at her husband was dark with reproach — even anger.

  Angelica cleared her throat. “This is very sudden, Papa. What are we to do in Brighton all summer?”

  Thorold blinked. “Why, make a holiday, naturally. The house is situated in a charming location — so convenient for the seaside.” The general mood slowly began to seep into his consciousness, and he frowned slightly at Angelica. “Why, I thought you’d be pleased, my dear. I thought you quite enjoyed Brighton last year.”

  Angelica drew a deep breath, as though summoning a reserve of patience. “I did, Papa. But that was for only a fortnight. And in any case, it’s such unexpected news — I must rearrange all my music lessons, and any number of social engagements if we are truly going away the day after tomorrow.”

  Frustrated now, Thorold looked across the length of the table to his wife. His mouth drooped at her expression. “I — I suppose my good news is unwelcome to you, too, Mrs. Thorold?”

  Mrs. Thorold sighed and began a long, meandering bulletin on her health.

  Mary leaned back in her chair, her gaze focused on Angelica. The girl wasn’t surprised. In fact, she was watching her mother with amused expectation. Had she enlisted her mother’s help in trying to remain in town? How had she managed to manipulate the old lady without giving away her own interests?

  Mary had a sudden, vivid memory of the coachman’s insinuations — suggestions she’d not had a chance to pursue earlier that day. If Brown was correct, Mrs. Thorold’s desire to remain in London was deeply personal. Perhaps Angelica hadn’t put her mother up to it after all. And it certainly gave a new interpretation to Thorold’s anxiety to remove the family from town, as well as his tense expression. Extracting his wife from a shameful entanglement? The Brighton plan suddenly seemed reasonable and urgent.

  And if this was truly the case — if Mrs. Thorold was conducting an extramarital affair — her entire role as an invalid had to be a sham! How could she have enough energy for passion and deception while lacking vigor in all other aspects of her domestic life? Mary’s fingers tightened round the stem of her wineglass. A grand deception . . . larger than any she’d imagined and, in its own way, possibly even more comprehensive than Mr. Thorold’s dirty business. After all, if a woman could dupe her husband, daughter, and household staff about her health, her abilities, her character . . . she was a woman of talent, indeed.

  Mary realized that she was in danger of snapping the fragile crystal goblet. With an effort, she refocused on Mrs. Thorold’s voice. “I cannot possibly find an internist of Mr. Abernethy’s stature in Brighton. It’s simply impossible. The same goes for Mr. Bath-Oliver, my cranial specialist, who is the best man in Europe in his field. Then there’s the . . .”

  As the plaintive list expanded, Mary glanced at Michael. He immediately withdrew his gaze from Angelica.

  Finally, Thorold grew impatient. “Very well, Mrs. Thorold, very well. I understand. I am still very anxious to have you all away from this city. This evil stink from the Thames is becoming absolutely intolerable.” He paused. “But if your health would be greatly compromised if forced to leave the care of your physicians . . . Indeed, if you think the risk of removing greater than that of remaining . . .”

  Mrs. Thorold’s eyes glittered, a brief flash of underlying steel. When she spoke, however, her voice was chalky soft. “I do, Husband.”

  He sighed and closed his eyes. After a minute, he spoke in a strained voice. “That leaves one remaining decision. I shall take the house at Brighton regardless; I should feel more comfortable knowing that you have a place to go in the event that the atmosphere here becomes yet more vile. But you may choose, Angelica, whether you wish to remain in town with your mother or if you prefer to go to Brighton with Miss Quinn for companionship.”

  He looked at his daughter helplessly. Michael allowed his gaze to return to her. Mary, too, was watching, as was Mrs. Thorold.

  Angelica clearly felt the importance of the moment and let it stretch out for a few seconds, luxuriating in her fragment of power. Finally, she smiled at Thorold. “Papa, you are most kind and generous, but I really think I ought to stay with Mama. Surely if the air becomes truly poisonous, you and Mr. Gray will join us in going to Brighton? It cannot be right that we should go to purer air while you remain in danger.”

  It was a splendid performance: modest, sweet, and dutiful, just as a daughter should be. If Mary hadn’t known better, she would have been tempted to think well of Angelica for nearly the first time since they’d met. As it was, she could only admire the girl’s stagecraft. She did not even permit herself a glance in Michael’s direction.

  After her day of discoveries, Mary found it difficult to fall asleep. Head buzzing with anxiety, she couldn’t shut off various streams of speculation about Michael Gray, about Angelica, about the curious lack of evidence pointing to Thorold so far. But when she tried to focus her thoughts, they returned with rebellious persistence to the subject of Mrs. Thorold’s “physicians.” Mere prurience? Or was the paramour part of the scheme as well? Perhaps — the idea flashed through her weary mind so swiftly she scarcely caught it — they were all in it together: husband, wife, lover? Too scandalous? Too damned im
possible given the personalities involved? She didn’t . . . perhaps . . .

  Sleep ambushed her train of thought. The next thing she knew it was morning, announced by the groan of rusty door hinges.

  “Tea.” Cass placed the saucer on the bedside table with less than her usual crash.

  Mary raised herself on one elbow and squinted at the girl. “Thank you.”

  Instead of the usual question about her bath, there was a silence. Then, “Is it true, then?”

  Mary sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Is what true?”

  “What Mr. Brown said.”

  Gad. “About Mrs. Thorold? I don’t know.” Mary took a sip of tea and looked at Cass. “Do you believe me?”

  Cass shrugged. “Dunno.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  Another shrug. That should have been the end of the conversation, but instead Cass looked at the floor and began to pick at her fingers. They were raw and chapped and scabbed round the cuticles.

  “Do your hands hurt?”

  A third shrug. “Can’t help it. It’s all the washing up.”

  Mary considered her for a moment. “Pass me that jar on the washstand — the one made of blue glass.”

  Cass obeyed mechanically.

  “Sit here.” Mary patted the bedside chair. “Roll up your sleeves a little.” The cuffs were grimy and tattered, and the child smelled of mutton fat and dirty hair. Was she a child? At this proximity, Mary noticed for the first time that the eyes were old and weary. Twelve, at least. Perhaps even fourteen, in the spindly body of a ten-year-old.

  Her hands were stiff at first under Mary’s touch, but after a minute she relaxed a little. “That stuff smells nice,” she whispered.

  Mary nodded and took care not to make eye contact. “It stings a little at first, but it helps.” She massaged the little clawlike hands for a few minutes. It was longer than necessary, but they had softened dramatically and Cass seemed in no hurry to go.