The Agency: A Spy in the House

by Y. S. Lee

  “Thorold once told me he preferred to engage foreign crews because they’re cheaper. The other benefit is that if the ships go down, there are fewer people to ask questions of him in England.”

  Mary’s eyes hardened. “Hence the donations to the Lascars’ home.”

  “Buying his way out of guilt?”

  “It rather looks that way.”

  In the grim silence that followed, Mary’s stomach rumbled loudly. She tried — and failed — to cover it with a cough.

  James glanced at his desk clock. “It’s quite late; will you let me give you some luncheon? Afterward, we might have a look at the register.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t. Indeed, I’m not really —” She was betrayed by another vigorous stomach growl and subsided into silence.

  He grinned provokingly. “You couldn’t, because ladies never eat except as a social diversion. Nor do they drink, sleep, or have other gross, vulgar, human functions. I know.”

  She had to smile at that.

  “Come on, then. I haven’t lunched either. Won’t you join me?”

  “I can hardly nip down to the pub for a sandwich and a pint,” she reminded him.

  “Damned inconvenient, isn’t it? How do ladies manage?”

  “We go home,” she said tartly.

  “And if you’re far from home?”

  “We faint from inanition, of course. I’m surprised you didn’t know that, too.”

  They lunched quickly on sandwiches and pints of ale brought in from a nearby pub. They didn’t talk much, but it was a friendly silence. Afterward, James smuggled her out of the office (they could hear George somewhere, practicing a syrupy ballad on his accordion) and down to the curb, where they hailed a cab.

  When he handed her up into the hansom, she couldn’t repress a small smile. “That’s the first time you’ve offered your assistance.”

  “It’s the first time you’ve let me,” he murmured, settling in beside her.

  The light was yellow-gray, bright enough to make one squint but without the appearance of actual sunshine. In its unflattering glare, all of London appeared dingy. Even new buildings, like the Palace of Westminster with its unfinished clock tower, looked sad and weathered. As the cab prepared to negotiate a slow left turn up Parliament Street, Mary suddenly jumped.

  “What is it?”

  She leaned back as though avoiding scrutiny. “Look.”

  James couldn’t see anything special in the usual scrum of unwashed humanity, hard-worked animals, yapping dogs, and clouds of dust jammed into a few hundred square feet. He leaned closer to Mary. “What am I to look at?”

  “The carriage about to pass us on the far side of the road. It’s the Thorolds’.”

  “That’s straightforward enough.”

  She shook her head impatiently. “No, it’s not. Thorold never takes the carriage. He and Gray used to take the ferry. Now they ride.”

  “Thorold loves that stinking river, doesn’t he?”

  She ignored that. “It must be Mrs. Thorold in the carriage.”

  “I thought she was an invalid.”

  “She is.” The Thorold carriage trundled past, southbound. “Damn, damn, damn!” She turned to him. “Quickly, we must follow them!”

  “I thought we were after Thorold.”

  “Please, James. The driver won’t listen to me with you here.”

  With a resigned look, he gave the cabbie his mysterious instructions, and the cab immediately began a slow U-turn, much to the irritation of a flower girl they nearly bowled over. She was still shouting curses after them as they joined the thick stream of traffic oozing slowly down toward Millbank. They were only five or six vehicles behind the Thorold carriage.

  “Tell me again why we’re following a hypochondriac housewife about town?”

  “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that Mrs. Thorold should be driving across Westminster Bridge? She hasn’t a single reason to be in the area.”

  “It could be a similar horse and carriage,” he said reasonably.

  “I recognized the coachman, Brown.”

  “I still don’t see your point.”

  “She drives out most afternoons, either for an airing or to consult one of her physicians. If you wanted air, would you drive to Lambeth?”

  “No, but perhaps she’s going to the physician’s.”

  “She’s a long way from Harley Street.”

  “He might be one of those homeopathic snake-oil types. They’re fashionable, and they set up shop in all sorts of peculiar districts.”

  “Well, Brown thinks something’s amiss. He says she goes to a private house in Pimlico on most days.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Why would he lie?”

  “Perhaps for the pleasure of gossip, or because he thought it was what you’d like to hear. When did you question him, anyway?”

  “He made a point of telling me one day, by the kitchen stairs.”

  He felt a stab of irritation. “Sounds as though he’d have said anything to attract your attention.”

  “Oh, please. He was dying to tell somebody, and I was the first candidate to come along.”

  “Hmmph. What else did he tell you?”

  “He intimated that Mrs. Thorold was having an affair.” Mary blushed at the memory of Brown’s other suggestion: that she and James were lovers. Then she was promptly annoyed with herself for blushing.

  “What nonsense.”

  “Hm? Oh!” She forced her attention back to the real subject. “It might be rubbish. But if so, the question remains as to what she does in Pimlico several afternoons a week. There’s nothing for a lady to do in Pimlico. It’s not as though she could be shopping or visiting friends.”

  “What about charitable work?”

  “Mrs. Thorold?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a possibility, however remote.”

  “All right, then. It’s not absolutely impossible that she might be engaged in some missionary scheme or seeing a homeopathic physician. But I’d like to be certain in case she’s linked in some way to this scheme of Thorold’s.”

  “That seems even less likely than the charitable work.”

  “I know,” she conceded. “But I won’t feel easy until I’ve seen it myself.”

  At the junction of Vauxhall Bridge, a brewer’s cart toppled over. Carriages, hansoms, carts, and drays from all directions juddered to a halt as ragged men and women, street urchins, and girls carrying babies all scrambled to nab a share of the spilled beer. One particularly large laborer applied his mouth directly to the leak in a cask, cheered on by his mates. The cart driver made no attempt to clear the thoroughfare. Instead, he mounted guard in front of the intact beer casks, using his horsewhip and a steady stream of colorful threats to fend off those who approached.

  “For pity’s sake,” muttered Mary.

  “I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to abandon Mrs. Thorold?” he muttered.

  “Absolutely not. Besides, we can’t even turn round.”

  He craned his neck to look and groaned. In just under a minute, traffic had become jammed for hundreds of yards around.

  “Would you rather get down? We could follow her just as easily on foot.”

  He looked at her dress: another frumpy brown sack. “We’ll be covered in dust. How will you explain that at home?”

  They sat. After some time, a reluctant coachman organized a small gang of men to help shift the debris. But despite these efforts, it took nearly three-quarters of an hour before the road was clear. The driver of the tipped cart was no help. He spent the interval gibbering with rage and bemoaning the damage to his axle. Eventually, a narrow route was cleared through the broken casks and spilled ale, but even then it took several minutes for traffic to resume movement.

  At the first opportunity, Mrs. Thorold’s carriage nipped precariously through a narrow gap on the edge of the pavement, very nearly crushing a dirty toddler and the basket of watercress to which it was strapped and causing anoth
er temporary stoppage as the indignant cresswoman rescued her child. For a few minutes, Mary was sure they’d lost her. As they cleared the junction, though, she caught sight of the familiar carriage disappearing round the corner of a side street. Their driver made a sharp right turn and urged the horses to a trot.

  The Thorold carriage turned left into Denbigh Place, a narrow street of terraced houses. The road was remarkably empty: no children playing outside, no vendors going door to door. In a perpetually loud and active city, the effect was chilling. It was as though the entire area had been evacuated.

  Mrs. Thorold’s carriage halted halfway down the street, and the door flew open even before Brown had clambered off the driver’s seat. He did manage to fumble the steps down, but with a sharp gesture the lady in the carriage dismissed his attempt to help her down. Her build was substantial and familiar, and she was wearing full matronly gear — wide crinoline, multiple skirts, bonnet. Her step was sure, and she descended with a matter-of-fact confidence completely unfamiliar to Mary. The distance from curb to front door was only a few paces. Yet it was enough to note the woman’s upright posture and brisk stride. She opened the door using her own key and vanished inside.

  James and Mary exchanged incredulous looks.

  “Did you . . . ?”

  “Was that . . . ?”

  Glancing toward the house again, they were in time to see Brown drive on and turn into the back street. Apparently, she was staying awhile.

  “What are the chances of another lady using Mrs. Thorold’s coachman?” asked James.

  “Another lady with her figure?” Mary shook her head. “It’s almost impossible.”

  “Charming family,” he drawled. “Papa’s corrupt, Mama prowls London on the sly. . . . Is there anything George and I ought to know about dear Angelica?”

  Mary kept silence. There was indeed, but she’d promised not to tell. And, truthfully, she didn’t want to tell. If he knew the latest developments, he’d have no reason to keep working with her. He was useful to her. And she’d actually come to enjoy his company, arrogant as he was.

  He was watching her expression intently. “Is that a yes?”

  “It can wait.” She jumped down from the cab and waited impatiently while he paid the driver.

  “All right,” he said as the cab rolled away. “How do we learn more about Mrs. Thorold’s business here?”

  “We ask the neighbors.”

  “We just ring the bell and say, ‘Beg pardon, who’s that lady and what does she do?’”

  She rolled her eyes. “We ring the bell and explain that I’m feeling faint from the heat, and may we come inside for a moment.” She took his arm and leaned on it dramatically.

  “And I just stand there like a dolt?”

  “You’re my brother, who’s extremely concerned for my health.”

  James shook his head. “I’ve a better idea. I’ll do that while you explore the back street. See if you can’t get a look in the windows.”

  “But ladies won’t talk to you as freely as they will to me.”

  He grinned. “I’m not going to the front door. I’m going to charm a pretty housemaid into telling me all.”

  “You seem very certain of your charm.”

  He tried to look modest and failed. “It worked on Angelica . . . and I wasn’t even trying with her.”

  Mary’s exploration of the back street was brief. The rear of the house was tidy and blank, the windows tightly covered from prying eyes. There wasn’t a single clue for the eager sleuth. She prowled the length of the alley for ten minutes or so, then returned to the corner of Denbigh Place to await James. He was some time — at least half an hour by her estimate, although she had no watch — and it occurred to her that, purposely or not, he was repaying her for his wait outside the Lascars’ refuge. The only other human in the street was a boy of about ten, idly kicking a ball.

  “You look smug,” she said to James when he finally appeared.

  He grinned. “The housemaid, Janet, is a charming girl. Served me tea and told me every detail of her life, from dawn to midnight. Apparently, I remind her of the hero of some novel she’s reading, but I’m better-looking.”

  “Why is modesty never one of the hero’s attributes?”

  He took her arm. “You’re only envious because I had tea. And some rather nice scones with jam and cream.”

  “Is this a sample of your famous charm?”

  “Oh, I don’t waste it on just anyone,” he said with a grin. “For example, ladies met in wardrobes, ladies who punch me in the nose, ladies who —”

  Mary had to laugh. “Very well. Tell me what you learned.”

  He turned serious. “Mrs. Thorold lets the house under the name Thorpe and she comes by in the afternoons. She has a gentleman friend, a Mr. Samuels, who calls in two or three times a week.”

  “Has anybody seen inside the house? Does ‘Mrs. Thorpe’ keep a maid?”

  “No; it’s something of a local mystery how they keep the house clean.”

  “Well, what about any unusual deliveries? Anything that could link them to Thorold’s cargoes?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing of the sort. These two keep a low profile; Janet doesn’t know where Mr. Samuels comes from either, and she’s as nosy as they come.”

  Mary digested this. “It certainly sounds like an adulterous affair.”

  James nodded. “Janet thinks so. Apparently it’s a favorite topic for all the local housemaids when they see each other.”

  They walked on a little farther, to the edge of a small garden square. The boy with the ball suddenly booted it toward them. “Pardon, sir!” cried the boy.

  James caught the dirty ball almost as a reflex. “Excuse me a moment, will you?” He motioned for Mary to walk on and dragged the boy about twenty feet off. At first it looked as though he was scolding the child, but then as the boy began to speak, James began to listen intently. Mary watched this byplay without particular interest until she noted the sudden change in James’s body language. He stiffened, glanced over at her, and spoke to the boy again. The whole exchange took only two or three minutes, but when it was over, James gave the boy something — money? — and rejoined her.

  “Who was that?” Mary asked.

  “Funny you should ask.” James’s grip on her arm was tight and he stalked along with long steps, forcing her to scurry to keep up.

  “What’s happened?”

  He stopped short. “When were you going to tell me?”

  Mary felt that moment of dread again; the knowledge that she was caught. “Tell you what?” she said cautiously.

  His grip on her arm tightened. “This morning you witnessed the marriage of Angelica Thorold and Michael Gray. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I — I promised.”

  “You promised.” His voice was contemptuous.

  “Michael and Angelica. I promised them not to tell anyone.”

  “You should never have made that promise. You had already agreed to work with me, and our agreement should have prevented such a promise.” He glared at her for a minute longer, then suddenly released her arm. The movement was so sudden that she stumbled backward. “You went back on your word!”

  Stung, she defended herself. “You had me followed, so clearly you don’t trust me anyway! You’re so outraged now, but you’re the one who’s been spying on me!”

  “I have no need to justify myself to you,” he muttered, “but that boy was shadowing Gray. Not you.”

  Mary blanched. Her righteous anger evaporated, to be replaced by cold nausea.

  “That boy only reported what he saw in the church this morning. You witnessed the marriage.” James stared at her for a long moment. “How old did you say you were?”

  “I — I said I was twenty.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You said . . .”

  She couldn’t manage another lie. Not now. Not to him. “I’m seventeen,” she admitted in a small voice.

  “So the marriage isn’t
even legal.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Is this your idea of a joke? And if so, who’s it on? Angelica, Michael Gray, or George and me? Or maybe your plan was to deceive all of us for some reason of your own.”

  She couldn’t speak.

  He looked as though he’d tasted something rotten. “I hope to God no one else finds out.”

  She was shaking now. “They won’t!”

  He only stared at her again, shook his head, and turned away.

  Mary stared after his receding form. When it was clear that he wasn’t going to stop, she hurried after him. “Wait — where are you going?”

  He swung round to face her and spoke formally. “I regret having urged this so-called partnership upon you. Consider yourself rid of me.”

  Stupidly, she gaped at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Good-bye, Miss Quinn. I wish you well.” He turned on his heel and strode away.

  Another sweltering, foul-smelling day. Sunlight glowed round the edges of the curtains. Mary lifted one eyelid. Why did she feel so . . . ? Even before she could frame the question, the events of yesterday came back. They didn’t rush or ebb so much as cudgel her brain. James. Their argument. Their separation. It ought to be for the best, but she hadn’t yet persuaded herself of the fact. Had she no shame? He was arrogant and hot-tempered, but her behavior had been worse: dishonest and foolish.

  On her return yesterday, she’d taken refuge in that classic lady’s complaint, the headache, in order to avoid dinner and a family evening. Cass had taken it upon herself to smuggle up a supper tray: a lukewarm cup of tea, three door-stopping slabs of bread and butter, and a wedge of slightly stale Madeira cake. Even in the hard grip of self-loathing, Mary had to smile at the girl’s idea of comfort and easily persuaded her to consume most of it. This morning, however, she felt hollow as a result of the missed meal.

  Was it even worth getting up today? She wrinkled her nose. Such a question was embarrassing, even when unspoken. And — how had she managed to forget? — the conclusion of the assignment awaited. Her first assignment. Her much-compromised assignment. After which she could finally go back to the Lascars’ refuge. And here she was, feigning illness over a man who despised her.