The Agency: A Spy in the House

by Y. S. Lee

  She stepped out from behind the pillar. “Good afternoon, Miss Thorold; Mr. Gray.”

  The effect was, as Angelica said, farcical. Four faces turned to watch her swift strides down the aisle, mouths agape. Four voices spoke as though in an amateur theatrical, overlapping and interrupting each other.

  Angelica (defiant): “You wouldn’t dare!”

  The minister (confused): “I take it you are acquainted with this young couple?”

  Michael (ashen-faced): “For God’s sake, Mary . . .”

  Mrs. Bridges (bewildered): “But I thought you said . . .”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt the service, Vicar, but might I have a word with Miss Thorold and Mr. Gray?” When the priest only nodded, Mary added, “In private?”

  He blinked, as though prodded. “C-certainly. Would you care to use the vestry?”

  “Thank you, no,” she said brightly. “This spot right here will do.”

  He and Mrs. Bridges had moved only a few yards away when Angelica exploded. “Of all the sneaking, petty, hateful things!”

  Michael jumped and gaped at his bride, pure shock paralyzing his face.

  She jerked her veil back, the better to attack. Her eyes were narrow slits, her face contorted with rage. “You will not stop us! I will not permit you to spoil everything!”

  Shaken, Michael took a firm hold on Angelica’s arm. “Mary, I know this looks bad. It’s highly irregular, but please . . . is there anything I can do to persuade you that I have Angelica’s best interests at heart?”

  “You’re a lying nobody,” snarled Angelica. Her body was tensed to spring, restrained only by Michael’s grip. “The vicar would never believe your word over mine even if we hadn’t a special license!”

  “An inaccurate special license?” asked Mary. “You’re only eighteen; you can’t marry without your parents’ permission until you turn twenty-one.”

  Angelica’s eyes bulged, revealing a striking resemblance to her father. “You can’t wait to ruin my life, can you? You’re jealous of me! You want Michael, but you can’t have him!”

  Mary glanced at Michael, who was trying not to look embarrassed. He failed at every moment. “Actually, I don’t. You’re very welcome to him.”

  Angelica’s face suddenly crumpled, and she began to sob. Her words were mangled, but it was clear that she was desperately angry and frightened. Michael tried to soothe her, but that only made her cry all the harder.

  Mary sighed and consulted the church clock. After three minutes, she spoke in her crispest voice. “That’s enough now. Stop bawling, Miss Thorold.”

  Startled, Angelica glared at Mary — but her tears slowed to a trickle.

  Michael drew a long-suffering breath. “Miss Quinn — Mary — you must believe me: I love Angelica and I want only what is best for her. I am no mean fortune hunter. I — I came to care for her long before I knew anything of her family or her social position. . . .”

  It was the old story: an absolute cliché. They had met in Surrey while Angelica was at finishing school and carried on a long, secret correspondence after she returned to London. Michael had deliberately sought employment with Thorold in order to be closer to her. Now, with increasing pressure on Angelica to marry George Easton, they had finally decided to elope.

  Michael’s narrative was long and emotional, and when the church clock tolled noon, Mary hastily interrupted him. “I believe in your sincerity, Michael.” He looked pathetically grateful. She turned to Angelica. “And I am a realist: if I were to report this to your parents, it would only harden your resolve.” She hoped she was doing the right thing. “If you wish to be married today, I will serve as your second witness.”

  Two pairs of eyes went round with shock. Two lower jaws dropped open. Michael regained speech first, and he impulsively clutched at Mary’s hands. “My dear girl — bless you.”

  The formal ceremony was as short as legally possible. No sooner had the vicar supervised the signing of the register than he gathered up his prayer book, nodded curtly, and swept off to the vestry. Mrs. Bridges received her tip with a curtsy and loitered about, flicking at bits of imaginary dust with her handkerchief until Angelica’s glare sent her scurrying for cover beyond the sanctuary.

  The newly married couple turned to face Mary, flushed and giddy with pride. “Mary, I thank you with all my heart for this great kindness.” Michael’s voice trembled with emotion. “I’m terribly grateful that you’re willing to jeopardize your place in order to help us.”

  Mary smiled. “It won’t be a place for long with Miss Thorold married.”

  Angelica forced a stiff smile. “We could try to help you find another.” Michael nudged her, and she added, shamefaced, “Miss Quinn, I must apologize for my remarks earlier . . . and for other things.” She gestured discreetly, sheepishly, to Mary’s lightly bandaged hand. “I hope you can forgive me.”

  It was much more than Mary had expected. “It must have been a shock to see me pop up.”

  They shared a relieved laugh, and the conversation turned, for a few minutes, to lighter subjects. The chiming of the clock, signaling half past twelve, prompted Mary to return to business. “What are your plans?”

  “We intend to keep the marriage a secret for a while,” Angelica said slowly. “Although if Mama really presses the matter of George Easton, we’ll have to tell her then. But now you’ve helped us, you won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  Mary gave her word.

  “And there is the question of my post,” added Michael. “I am actively seeking another. Not just because of our marriage,” he added hastily, with a glance at Angelica. “I have become increasingly anxious about Thorold and Company in recent weeks, and I would have been on the lookout for something else in any case. But this”— he squeezed Angelica’s hand proudly — “this has decided me.”

  Mary’s ears pricked up. “Anxious about Mr. Thorold’s success? Surely not.”

  Michael looked pained. “Oh, well . . . trade is never very certain. . . .”

  Oh, no. He wasn’t escaping that easily. “Yet Mr. Thorold is a well-established merchant. Even if trade slackened, other companies would suffer before his.” She turned to Angelica. “Isn’t that just what your father was saying at dinner a few nights ago?”

  Angelica nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. He’s always said so.”

  Michael looked pained. “Well, darling, we did talk about those other matters. . . .”

  “Other matters?” Mary made her eyes wide and ingenuous.

  The newlyweds blushed, but Mary kept her gaze fixed firmly on Michael.

  He spoke reluctantly. “Some weeks ago, I noticed a number of discrepancies in the firm’s accounting. I was quite sure that they were only clerical errors at first, but when I brought them to Thorold’s attention, he told me not to worry about them; that he would sort them out.

  “It wasn’t typical behavior, of course. As his secretary, I would normally oversee such corrections. But I let matters alone. It was only the other week — perhaps a fortnight ago — that I happened to glance at our quarterly accounts and noticed that the errors were still there.” He paused, and Mary made a deliberate effort to relax her posture. “Naturally, I mentioned them to Thorold again. He’s a busy man, and sometimes the odd thing slips his mind. But he told me — quite brusquely — that things were in order and I was to mind my own d —” He glanced at Angelica. “To mind my own affairs.” He paused again and seemed suddenly to recall himself. “I’m sorry to burden you with all this,” he said hastily. “You can’t be interested in the details of the trading house.”

  “But of course, I am concerned about you and Angelica,” Mary said gently. What she really wanted was to shake the information out of Michael Gray.

  “Well . . . the long and short of it is that something’s not right. There have been odd sums paid to diverse people. Highly irregular sums.”

  “He’s a very generous man,” Angelica put in defensively. “He gives money to all sorts of people
.”

  “That’s true, darling. . . .” Michael winced.

  “One of the largest sums went to a refuge for aged seamen!” she persisted. “That’s obviously just charitable giving!”

  “Ye-e-es,” said Michael. “But it’s the confusion in the accounting that makes me nervous, darling.”

  “Yet Mr. Thorold seems to think that matters are as they should be?” Mary tried to sound casual.

  Michael fidgeted nervously. “Not as they should be; as he wants them.”

  “That is a very serious accusation,” said Mary.

  He sighed. “I know it. I’m not in a position to criticize the man, naturally. I think the best I can do is clear out.”

  She wanted to scream. “Surely,” she said, striving for a reasonable tone, “the thing to do would be to go to the authorities? You have, after all, seen the proof of this . . . inaccuracy.”

  Michael smiled grimly. “In a perfect world, naturally. But I have my wife to think about . . .” He smiled at Angelica as he uttered the possessive phrase. “And our future family. Who would engage a secretary who goes snooping for trouble and then denounces his employer? In my line of work, loyalty is prized above most other traits.”

  Mary shifted impatiently. “Perhaps you could convey the information to a third party? Anonymously?”

  Michael looked thoughtful. “That’s an idea . . . although poor Anj’s family would still be in the soup, then.”

  Angelica looked anxious. “I see your point, Miss Quinn. But it’s a dreadful position. I feel such a traitor even listening to Michael’s concerns about my father. And there’s my mother to think about. Her health is so precarious.”

  Was it? Mary was tempted to question her about that. Had Angelica never wondered about the inconsistencies in her mother’s behavior? Or was Angelica merely returning Mrs. Thorold’s favor: being entirely self-absorbed and letting everyone else go his or her own way? But this was neither the time nor the place for that conversation. “Yet it seems wrong to say nothing!” she persisted.

  Michael nodded uncomfortably. “You’re right. I have . . .” He trailed off, considering something. “This is confidential, you understand.”

  Mary nodded, trying not to appear too eager.

  “I have taken copies of the account and a few relevant documents. They’re not notarized or official in any way. . . .”

  “Yes?” she prompted. “They’re unofficial, of course, but quite complete?”

  He nodded. “I’m keeping them in a safe place.”

  “Not at the house, I hope?” Mary asked in what she hoped was a naive voice.

  Michael looked startled. “The warehouse? Good Lord, no!”

  “I meant the family home.”

  “Oh.” Michael looked crafty. “Well, let’s just say that they’re well hidden.” He cast a tender look at Angelica. “Aren’t they, darling?”

  “Yes. I was against it, at first,” Angelica added. “But the longer I’ve considered the matter, the more important I believe it to be. One day, Michael might be able to persuade Papa to do something; to make things right.”

  Well hidden? Between the two of them? Mary had a sudden idea where. “Do you have all the files you need in order to persuade Mr. Thorold of your serious intentions?”

  Michael nodded. “I have enough to cause the authorities to look into matters.”

  “One day,” added Angelica firmly.

  With Mrs. Thorold still in her room and Mr. Thorold long departed for the office, only the servants were present to note Mary’s return to the house at Cheyne Walk. To them it would seem as though she’d gone out with Angelica but popped back to retrieve something. And, in a way, she had.

  She went directly to the drawing room, to the music chest beside the pianoforte. Some of the sheet music was printed and bound, but much was painstakingly hand-copied by Angelica and the pages pinned or clipped together. Her enthusiasm for music was striking. Most young ladies’ music collections consisted of simple verses set to pretty tunes. In contrast, Angelica favored a challenging repertoire from modern composers — Mendelssohn, Chopin, and especially Schumann. As she searched, Mary wondered what it must be like to be Angelica: pretty, spoiled, and destined for marriage. Had she ever wanted anything more? Perhaps to be a musician, like Clara Schumann? Mary couldn’t shake the idea that Angelica’s tantrums and sulks might themselves be a form of unhappiness.

  Near the bottom of the music chest, Mary found a pianoforte concerto by Schumann. It had been specially bound in handsome maroon leather and dedicated To A.T. on her eighteenth birthday, from M.G. The gift of Angelica’s favorite music given by Angelica’s favorite admirer. The kick of her pulse told Mary that this was it. Sure enough, folded into the back were a dozen or so loose sheets of paper, closely covered in neat handwriting. She scanned the pages carefully. Balance sheets — records of payment — notes on shipping insurance — and, crucially, letters between Thorold and an employee of Lloyd’s. Yes. There was enough information here.

  The drawing-room clock struck one thirty, and Mary remembered that she was due at James’s office. There was no time to make a copy, and removing the whole sheaf would distress Michael and Angelica if they checked on it. As a compromise, Mary took a small selection of documents. Three or four sheets of paper, she reasoned, would not be quickly missed. She stuffed it into her pocketbook, thinking longingly of her father’s roll of documents. In two days, this would be over and she could return to the refuge to learn more. In the meantime, it was simpler not to think about him at all.

  When Mary turned up at Great George Street, James was waiting in the entrance area. He didn’t greet her but instead took her arm, marched her briskly into his private office, and shut the door firmly.

  “What’s the matter?” Mary was amused.

  “I don’t want my brother to recognize you.”

  “I’m only a servant,” she said. “I doubt he’d recognize me if I looked him straight in the eyes and told him my name.”

  James grinned. “Oh, he remembers you. After what you said about the Crimean War last Sunday, he thinks you’re an evil influence who oughtn’t be allowed within a hundred yards of Miss Thorold.”

  “Oh.” This morning’s events would only confirm George’s opinion of her.

  “That’s it? ‘Oh’?”

  “What do you think?”

  That wiped the smile from his face. He looked at her for a long time, his eyes unreadable. “I think you’re trouble,” he said slowly. “But you’re very interesting.”

  Mary felt herself blushing under his scrutiny. She didn’t know how to respond, so she sat down and removed her gloves.

  James cleared his throat. “How are your inquiries coming on?”

  “I’ve located copies of some documents pertaining to some fiscal irregularities in Thorold’s company.” She produced her “borrowed” pages. “This is only a sample. They should be sufficient to show evidence of financial dishonesty . . . enough, at least, to warrant searching further.”

  He leaned forward to study the sheet. “Tell me more.”

  “This is an internal memorandum from Lloyd’s of London, the insurance firm, tallying Thorold’s claims over the past five years. Taken separately, each claim seems ordinary; modest, even. Yet they occur a bit more frequently than the average, and they happen over a sustained period of time.”

  “So either Thorold has rather poor luck or he’s making fraudulent claims.”

  “Precisely.” She waved a second page at him. “Lloyd’s seems to have begun an internal investigation. They daren’t accuse Thorold of anything without proof, of course, but they’re suspicious and they’re doing their research. And this is where things become interesting: The investigation is assigned to a Joseph Mays. A fortnight later, Thorold begins to write checks to one J. R. Mays. Here, and here, and here.”

  James whistled low. “Rather large sums, considering the frequency.”

  “How much would Joseph Mays earn at Lloyd’s? Two
hundred a year?”

  “Much less, I think. So Thorold is more than doubling the man’s salary.”

  She nodded. “But he’s still ahead: the payouts to Mays are cheaper than having his insurance claims denied.”

  “D’you think Thorold’s ships really sink that often? What could possibly be happening to them?”

  “He might be lying about their sinking. Double collecting.”

  He frowned. “That’s the simplest solution. . . .”

  “But?”

  He took his time framing the question. “But what if he really was sinking them? Not deliberately, of course, but by overloading them — out of greed or carelessness or false economy.”

  As he spoke, a long-forgotten memory flashed into Mary’s mind. A man in a suit standing at her mother’s door in Poplar. A man explaining that her father was dead because the ship had capsized in a storm. Her mother refusing to accept what the man said. Neither adult had realized she understood every word.

  Mary’s face flooded with heat and the backs of her eyes prickled with tears. She would not cry. Not here in front of James.

  “Mary? What’s wrong?” His voice was unusually kind, which only made things worse.

  “N-nothing. It’s just a bit warm in here.”

  “It is.” He covered her hand with his. “Are you certain it’s the heat?”

  She cleared her throat and pulled her hand from his clasp. “Of course. Where were we?”

  He gave her a long, steady look but when she glared at him, he shrugged. “All right. I suggested that Thorold might overload his ships, causing them to sink.” He paused, studying her face. “Mary? Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

  “Er — yes.” Concentrate! “If the ships are grossly overloaded, they’d ride so low in the water that it wouldn’t take much of a storm to sink them. They’re called coffin ships among sailors.” It was difficult not to sound bitter.