by Y. S. Lee
“Are you a lady?”
Surprised, Mary looked at her. The girl had intelligent eyes. “What do you mean?”
Cass frowned impatiently. “Just, are you a lady?”
“Er . . . well, I work because I haven’t any money,” Mary said cautiously. “But I had a lady’s education. You know, French and geography and history and all that.”
“So your father was a gentleman?”
Mary made a wry face. “No, he wasn’t. Why do you ask?”
“’Cause you look like a lady, but you don’t behave like one.”
“What do you mean?”
“You talk to me. Say ‘thank you.’ And Miss Thorold would never ask about my hands.”
Mary gave the hands a final pat. “I doubt Miss Thorold ever sees you.”
Cass shook her head. “No.”
Mary waited, but the girl didn’t move.
Finally, Cass asked, “Do you think I could be a lady? Like you, I mean,” she clarified. “Not a real lady.”
Mary hid a grin. “Do you want to be ladylike?”
Cass shrugged. “I don’t care about French and history. . . .”
“But it seems easier than the scullery?”
“Yes.”
“It probably is.” Mary looked at the alert eyes, half hidden by a tangle of dirty hair. She felt a sudden jolt: she must have looked like this once. “It’s getting late,” she said, putting the stopper back in the ointment pot. “Come and see me before you sleep tonight; I’ll rub your hands again.”
Breakfast was a silent meal at Cheyne Walk. Thorold disappeared behind his copy of the Times while Michael scanned the other papers for news pertaining to the company. At the Academy, breakfast was simple and communal: porridge eaten at long wooden tables in the company of high-spirited girls. Now, with an amazing array of hot dishes under silver covers and the luxury of silence, Mary wondered how she would ever return to the noisy austerity of the school once her assignment was over. She was spooning quince jelly onto toast when one of the footmen appeared at her elbow with the day’s first post.
Mary blinked. “Thank you.” It was the first letter she’d received since coming to live at Cheyne Walk, and she recognized Anne’s sharp scrawl immediately. A slight prickle crawled up and down her spine, and she broke the seal hastily, her hand shaking slightly as she unfolded the single sheet.
My dear Mary,
I am writing to you using my new portable letter case, which is most convenient and very practical: it opens and closes with one simple movement. As I write, surrounded by some three dozen excited senior pupils, I feel unusually anxious. For two days, due to the heat being intolerable and unseasonable for this time of year, we have stopped conducting lessons. I intend to take the girls to the countryside for a spell, hoping that no noxious airs will affect us there.
Likewise, try to minimize risks to yourself. Perhaps you’ll find a way to raise this subject with your employers; they must realize that the stench is dangerous to one’s health. Take care of yourself, Mary, dear.
Yours sincerely,
A.
It was a terrible letter — stilted, imprecise, and unworthy of Anne’s crisp intelligence. Yet it provided Mary with more information than she’d received since arriving at Cheyne Walk. The agreed-upon code was absurdly simple: every eleventh word of the body of the letter was part of Anne’s real message. She and Felicity had argued strenuously about this, with Anne favoring something more difficult to decode and Felicity championing speed of comprehension. Felicity had won, arguing that Mary would have little privacy and leisure to work out an elaborate code and, further, that the intention of the code was only to protect the information from casual observers. Now, as she sat at the breakfast table munching toast, Mary easily sifted through the faux news to discover Anne’s true warning: case closes three days time take no risks subject dangerous.
Three days meant that the investigation was running to schedule. It also meant that she was nearly out of time, considering how long it had taken her to achieve so very little. Mary sighed.
“Not bad news, I hope.”
She looked up and met Michael’s inquiring gaze. “No . . . but timely, considering our conversation last night. My former employer, Miss Treleaven, wrote to inform me that she intends moving her pupils away from London for the summer. She’s extremely anxious about the effects of the heat on the girls’ health.”
He frowned. “Really? Isn’t the school quite far north?”
“Yes, in St. John’s Wood. But Miss Treleaven’s concern for her students is thorough: she is extremely good to them.” Too late, Mary realized the unflattering implications of her sentence. “Er . . . much like Mr. Thorold toward his dependents, of course.”
Michael scarcely glanced at his employer. “Of course. You must be close to your former headmistress for her to write to you on such a small matter.”
“I am,” she said guardedly. “I owe her a great deal: She educated me and gave me my first post. Without her, my life would have been very different.”
Michael’s next remark was cut off by the rattling of Thorold’s newspaper, which signaled the end of their meal. As he rose, he said softly, “I am intrigued, Mary. You must tell me more of your history later on.”
She only smiled. He was carrying his end of the “flirtation” very dutifully. After breakfast she wrote a short letter, using the agreed-upon key:
Dear Miss Treleaven,
Thank you for your kind and informative letter. The country house sounds a splendid idea: safe and with enough space to let the pupils take exercise and enjoy themselves. Such impromptu holidays, in my recollection, are, indeed, always the most enjoyable. The midsummer Brighton beach holiday we teachers all enjoyed last year lingers as but one of my happiest memories.
Here in Chelsea, the Thorold family is most kind to me. There cannot be many households remaining in which dependents are treated with such generosity. I find Chelsea most interesting and, although near the river, the air is, for me, quite tolerable. Regrettably, I must end this little note now, but hope to hear from you at your earliest leisure.
Yours sincerely,
Mary Quinn
After seeing Thorold and Michael safely away, she left the house at half past nine at a brisk walk, dropping the letter safely in a pillar box round the corner. At this hour, the day was still cool and the river at its least offensive. Even so, she was glad for a light breeze from the north, which carried the smells of decay and sewage away from her. At the corner of Oakley Street, a small lad overtook her, clipping her on the elbow.
“Ouch!” Automatically, she turned to collar the boy: the “accidental” jostle was a well-worn pickpocket’s maneuver. She’d used it herself in her youth, before graduating to larger exploits.
“Ever so sorry, miss.” The boy tugged his cap apologetically. It was only then that Mary noticed he was neatly attired and surprisingly clean. An office boy of some sort?
“No harm done.”
“B’lieve you dropped this, miss.” He bobbed to the ground, then offered her a sealed letter.
She opened her mouth to deny it, then noticed the direction on the paper: Miss M — Q —. “Oh. Thank you.”
“Not t’all, miss. G’morning.” And with another tug on his cap, he was off.
Mary glanced about — ridiculously, since she was in a busy street — and tore open the envelope. Come to my offices. JE. An address was printed below. She debated his terse command for only a moment. It wasn’t as though she had an elaborate scheme of her own. Three days. Three days. Three days. The words made a drumbeat in her head.
As she emerged from the omnibus in Great George Street, the first brass nameplate she saw was that of Isambard Kingdom Brunel, the most eminent engineer in the country. But unlike Brunel’s offices, those of Easton Engineering were unassuming. In the main room, a row of clerks’ heads bent low over desks and drafting tables. No marble, no mahogany: just a high reception desk, behind which a thin, bespec
tacled man regarded her with suspicion. After a moment, he unprimmed his mouth enough to emit a dusty “Yes?”
“I’m here to see Mr. James Easton.”
“What name, miss?”
“Give this to him.” She slid the crumpled envelope across the desk.
His nose wrinkled slightly, and he hesitated before grasping the envelope between the extreme tips of two fingers. “Wait here.” Half a minute later, he returned down the length of the large room, stiff with reluctance. “If you’ll come this way, miss.”
Trailed by the curious gazes of the clerks, Mary followed him to the end of the room and through another heavy wooden door. James’s office was as spare as the first. He was seated behind a fantastically untidy desk: stacks of papers, rolls of technical drawings, and dozens of little scribbled scraps of paper cluttered its surface. An empty coffee cup teetered at one corner with a half-eaten muffin balanced against the saucer. He was in shirtsleeves.
He glanced up as she entered the room but did not bother to rise. “No interruptions, Crombie,” he said to the old man. “Especially not from George.” The old clerk grunted and closed the door firmly behind him. After a moment, James set down his pen. “You might raise your veil; I prefer to see a person’s face.”
Instead, she unpinned her hat and placed it on a corner of his desk. “You’re in a charming mood today.”
He frowned at the hat. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. What took you so long?”
“I can’t leave the house before Thorold and Gray do.” She began to remove her gloves.
He grunted, then looked her over with a critical frown. “You look ghastly. Didn’t you sleep at all last night?”
“I slept adequately, thank you.”
“Hm. Must be that dress, then. What color d’you call that?”
“Mustard color. It was very fashionable three or four years ago.”
“It makes you look bilious.”
“Thank you.”
The dangerously soft tone finally penetrated his ill humor. “What’s wrong, then? Why are you so polite?”
She blinked dramatically. “I am always polite, Mr. Easton. It is you who express your great importance through bad manners.”
“Poppycock. Why don’t you sit down?”
“Because you have not asked me to.”
With a look of deep irritation, he came round the desk and held the facing chair for her. “My dear Miss Quinn, won’t you take a seat?” His voice was heavily sarcastic.
She accepted graciously.
He slumped back into his chair and crossed one leg over his knee. “Now. Have you learned anything since we last spoke?”
She briefly described what had happened at dinner last night. “As the Brighton scheme’s been overruled, perhaps we can let that go?”
He nodded. “My solicitor is searching for any legal proceedings in which Thorold’s been involved in the past twenty years. He’s come up empty-handed so far.”
Mary bit her lip. She ought to tell him about Thorold’s past entanglements: the suspicion of insurance and taxation frauds, both of which had come to naught. But could she explain her knowledge of such without compromising the Agency?
“I also inspected his will at Doctors’ Commons.”
“Because you can’t have love without money,” she scoffed.
He wasn’t the least bit offended. “It’s all very average and sensible: everything to his wife, if she’s alive. Otherwise, a generous life interest to Miss Thorold and everything to her heirs.”
“The classic way to fend off fortune hunters.”
“Exactly.”
“No old friends, business partners, charitable gifts?”
“Nothing extraordinary — a couple of thousand here and there. He named a missionary society and a home for aged sailors — Lascars, specifically.”
Mary’s eyebrows shot up. “He cares for Asian sailors but not English ones?”
“I suppose the English ones are better provided for. At least they have families and communities here. The Asians who become stranded here really do need the help.”
Mary nodded. As a child in Poplar, she’d known a number of Lascar families. Even the sailors who settled in London and married English women were generally poor.
“Lascars could link me to my illegal shipments,” mused James.
This was not a subject she wanted to explore. “Ancient, underpaid sailors responsible for smuggling?” she scoffed. “It seems unlikely.”
“Not old sailors, no. But there must be younger men who pass through the home — seamen who have recently arrived from the subcontinent.”
She looked skeptical. “Why would Thorold trust foreign sailors with his smuggled cargoes?”
“If they’re caught, he can deny all knowledge. Everyone’s eager to believe that foreigners are responsible for the worst crimes. And the stereotypical connection between Orientals and opium is useful.”
They argued the point for a while longer before Mary was forced to concede. She nodded slowly. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for you to take a look. I’ll think of something else to do in the meantime.”
He looked surprised. “Aren’t you coming with me?”
She stared, stomach churning. “Why? It seems — unnecessary.”
“I have a plan. I’ll tell you on the way.”
They detoured north instead of crossing the river directly onto the Isle of Dogs. He stopped in a seedy alley in Holborn where he jumped down from the carriage, held a muttered conference with a dirty, one-eyed old woman, and climbed back in, his arms full of grubby cloth.
She wrinkled her nose. “Phew. What the devil is all that?”
“It’s a dress.”
“Oh, no. I’m not putting that on. It stinks of last week’s washing up.”
“It smells of the people.”
“And how will that disgusting object aid our inquiry?”
“One of us is going to distract the warden and the other is going to slip in the back way.”
She sighed. “I suppose you’ll be going to the front door and I’ll be sneaking in the kitchen door? Why can’t I be the lady and you the smelly servant?”
“You can’t pass as a lady without a maid in tow.”
She glared at him for a moment, but his logic was inarguable. “Fine. Close your eyes,” she ordered, drawing the carriage blinds.
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, you know.”
“You haven’t seen mine before.”
He grinned but closed his eyes obediently. “You’re awfully prim for a woman who runs about in the middle of the night wearing breeches.”
It was more difficult than one might expect to change dresses in the confines of a carriage. It didn’t help that she had to go largely by feel and that her own dress had so many respectable yards of fabric to its skirts. After a few minutes of struggle, she managed to get free of the mustard-colored creation and thrust it toward James. “Here. Hold this.”
“That took long enough,” he snorted.
“I didn’t say you could look yet!”
“Still not dressed?” It was a stupid question: she wore a light corset over a thin chemise and plain muslin pantalettes. If she stepped out of the carriage, she would probably start a riot.
“No!” She folded her arms protectively over her chest. “Shut your eyes again.”
There followed several more minutes of rustling before she said, “All right.”
When he opened his eyes, she was tying on a much-battered bonnet. “The color suits you.”
“I don’t look bilious?” She grinned back, despite her trepidation.
They drew up round the corner. “I’ll meet you back here in half an hour.”
The Imperial Baptist East London Refuge for Destitute Asiatic Sailors was located in Limehouse, near the East India Hospital. Composed of two grimy redbrick terraced houses knocked together, it was identified by a large, tarnished brass nameplate on the front door, next to a similarly neglected bell
. Eyeing its sad façade, Mary was suddenly relieved that she wasn’t the one providing the distraction. The last thing she wanted was to be seen here.
She picked her way through the alley that ran behind the row of houses. It was full of the usual rubbish — scraps, slops, ashes — and heavy with the odor of rot. The back door of the refuge was no better and no worse than any other in the row. Its paint was blistered and peeling off in sheets, and the window beside it was boarded up. But the doorsill had been recently swept and the ash can stood neatly to one side. It was an odd blend of tidiness and disrepair.
She listened for a moment outside the door. Nothing. Somewhere deep in the house, she could hear activity — a bell ringing, footsteps, a door creaking open. But nothing immediate. She was unsurprised when the doorknob turned easily beneath her hand.
As she’d expected, she stepped into the gloom of the scullery. The walls were naked brick, the floor bare stone. She listened intently once again and caught a murmur of male voices. Footsteps — two sets? And then a door closing on the voices. There was still no movement at the rear of the house.
If she were hiding illicit cargo or papers, where would they be? In the uppermost corners of the house, probably. The cellar was surely too damp and full of vermin. And if the papers were in the warden’s study . . . She’d worry about that later. Gliding through the kitchen proper, she passed into the main corridor, glancing about cautiously. The house was dim and still and surprisingly cool, given the weather. Small patches of mold blossomed in corners, and rust-colored water stains took the place of wallpaper. Beneath the sweet smell of damp, there was a sharp, warm odor: Asian cooking, medicines, textiles . . . the Far East condensed into a domestic scent. She was suddenly, forcibly, reminded of Poplar. Of home.
The staircase was uncarpeted, and she trod carefully, trying both to be quiet and to control her shaking limbs. On the second-floor landing, there were three doors. A neat opening had been cut into the wall at the top of the stairs, linking the landing with that of the adjoining house. It was presumably a mirror image of this one.