The Agency: A Spy in the House

by Y. S. Lee

  There was another pause before Anne’s cool voice reached her ears. “Do you wish to be relieved of your responsibilities?”

  Mary flushed scarlet. “That is the most sensible course of action,” she said slowly.

  “But?”

  “I’ve given you no reason to believe in my abilities,” she said shakily. “I’ve been headstrong and arrogant and a danger to my colleagues. I’ve made the worst start possible. . . .”

  “But?” Anne sounded genuinely curious.

  “But I should like to continue with this assignment.” She drew a long breath and met Anne’s gaze with an imploring look. “I need to justify the faith you’ve had in me for all these years.”

  Anne’s fine brows drew together in a slight frown. “You mustn’t do this for me or for the Agency, Mary.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “It’s more than that, Miss Treleaven. I want to do my job. I want to meet my responsibilities. I want to see this task through to its logical conclusion. I want a chance to put things right.”

  Anne’s expression was neutral. Mary held her breath. The small, squat clock on the desk rang the hour, followed by twelve silvery chimes. She would have to leave shortly in order to catch an omnibus back to Chelsea.

  Anne, too, glanced at the clock. “You may continue with the assignment, Mary.” She cut off Mary’s thanks with a swift gesture. “Now. It seems to me there are four main threads in your narrative; I shall address them in order of importance.

  “The transcribed documents you mentioned may be useful, but we have other resources. If only Michael and Angelica Gray know their location, they are unlikely to be lost, and Scotland Yard can compel Gray to turn them over if need be. If you haven’t located other documents at this point, you likely won’t.” Anne fixed her with a stern look.

  Mary nodded. Her cheeks and ears were scarlet.

  “As for Mrs. Thorold’s activities, you should remain alert for irregularities. I will arrange to have her placed under surveillance, but keep track of her movements today. Concerning James Easton: will you have further contact with him?”

  When Mary tried to speak, only air came out. Eventually, she croaked, “No.” At Anne’s raised eyebrows, she managed some further explanation. “His brother was courting Angelica. Now that she’s married, they are out of the picture.”

  Anne began to ask a question, then appeared to change her mind. Instead, she said carefully, “Your loyalty to the Agency comes first in this case. Remember that, should you see him again.”

  Mary nodded, feeling oddly uncomfortable. Was that all Anne intended to say on the matter? She considered framing a question . . . but what?

  “Finally, the question of Cassandra Day: You aren’t responsible there, Mary. She is free to decline our assistance.”

  “But I don’t understand what terrified her so. She trusted me, to a certain extent, until I mentioned going to school.”

  Anne sighed. “Some girls simply hate the notion. They dislike what they perceive as imprisonment.”

  “Life as a kitchen maid is preferable?” Mary couldn’t keep the frustration from her voice.

  “She clearly believes so.” Anne paused, then leaned forward once again. “We must return to the Thorold case. Our agent completed her investigation last night and retrieved the relevant papers from the warehouses. The shipment is due to be unloaded tomorrow. We are now waiting for Scotland Yard to confirm that they will move then in order to secure the physical evidence.”

  “I’m to keep an eye on the rest of the household until then?”

  “Yes. The secret marriage is likely to be revealed in the confusion surrounding the arrests. You’ll be able to leave your post quite naturally.”

  Mary nodded and rose. “Miss Treleaven . . .”

  Anne shook her head. “No thanks and no apologies.”

  Mary ransacked her brain for something appropriate that was neither thanks nor apology. “Will you wish me luck for my last day?” There was a slight quaver in her voice.

  A rare smile softened Anne’s lips. “If you keep your head, you shan’t need it.”

  James’s plans for a leisurely Sunday afternoon were a loss from the start. He’d put in a long Saturday night at the office, catching up on work that he’d neglected in favor of tearing about London with that woman. He really ought to have known better: any person encountered skulking in a wardrobe was going to be trouble. That went double — no, treble — for any tomboy who claimed to be a lady but whose behavior proclaimed otherwise at every moment. The damned minx was a practiced manipulator. He and George were fortunate to be free of the Thorolds and their dependents. Not that George would agree.

  Then, just as James managed to distract himself with a book, the housekeeper brought him a note from Alfred Quigley. It wasn’t the lad’s fault: he had no idea the “case” had collapsed. But it was another unpleasant reminder of how much time and energy he’d wasted over the past fortnight. James crumpled the note into his pocket and began brooding about Quigley instead.

  He ought to find something else for the lad to do. A bright child like that was wasted on simple errands. Yet at his age, it was the only sort of paid work he was likely to find, and he had to support his widowed mother. Could Easton Engineering engage the lad as a sort of apprentice assistant? Or perhaps find him a place in a decent school. . . . He’d need more schooling if he was to exploit his talents properly. Either way, the lad was a new responsibility James would have to sort out, thanks to the damned Thorolds.

  Such an internal monologue was far from relaxing, and it was with almost a sense of relief that he heard the library door open. “What is it, Mrs. Lemmon?”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Easton. There is a policeman asking to speak with you or Mr. George.”

  “Did he say what he wants?”

  “He wouldn’t explain himself to me, sir. He only declared it to be urgent.”

  On a Sunday, as well. “Very well.” James stood. “Where have you put him?”

  Constable Thomas Huggins was trailing an idle finger over the carved frame of a painting in the breakfast room. Young, with anxious, wide-set eyes, he whirled about guiltily at James’s entrance. “Mr. Easton?”

  “Yes.” James sat down and invited the man to do the same.

  “Very sorry to disturb you of a Sunday, sir.” Huggins remained standing, hat awkwardly in hand. “Some rather unpleasant news, I’m afraid.”

  “Concerning me?”

  “It appears that way, sir.”

  James merely waited, stone-faced.

  “There’s been a body discovered on one of your building sites, sir.”

  A body. James experienced a sudden certainty. He could see the slight, crumpled figure, its edges defined by a narrow crinoline, a mass of dark hair. “How? Where?” His voice sounded harsh, overloud.

  Constable Huggins wiped his forehead. “Hard by the river, sir.”

  James was very glad he was seated. After a moment, he asked, “How can I help you?”

  Huggins nodded, on firm ground once more. “Looks like an accident, sir. He must have lost his footing and tumbled into a pit, but we —”

  Through his fog of nausea, James grasped the essential word. “He? It was a man?”

  Huggins nodded. “Building sites are so tempting to beggars and mudlarks, you know. . . . They think it’s all treasure trove.”

  Not a woman, then. Not — He drew a long breath.

  “And so I’ve been sent to ask if you would come to the scene.”

  “Of course.” James rose. “I doubt that I’ll be able to identify the body, though, Constable. A vagrant, did you say?” Now that the first shock was past, he was annoyed at having jumped to conclusions. If Mary were to turn up dead, it certainly wouldn’t be on one of his sites. He would banish her from his thoughts, beginning now.

  “Yes, sir. It’s hardly a nice subject for a Sunday, but a body’s a body, even if he looks to be a ruffian. Probably mucking about with the machinery and all
.”

  They took the waiting hansom down to the site of the future railway tunnel. It was a relatively unsmelly afternoon, for which James was grateful. The men could work efficiently tomorrow if this cool weather held.

  Descending from the cab, he noted a small cluster of people. The site was guarded by a harassed-looking policeman who introduced himself as Sergeant Davis. The others were scavengers, mudlarks, and rag-and-bone men eager to strip the corpse.

  James glimpsed a small heap at the far end of the tunnel mouth. “Any idea how the man got down there?”

  “Fell, I s’pose.”

  James looked at the police sergeant sharply, but he wasn’t being sarcastic. “Have you even sent for a surgeon?”

  Sergeant Davis looked sullen. “What for? Christ himself couldn’t raise this one.”

  A snigger rose from the audience.

  “Get them away from here,” growled James. He stripped off his jacket and scrambled into the pit. It led down from the entrance of the tunnel, and he almost slipped, skidding down crablike on his hands and feet. At the bottom, he stood and walked squelchily across its base. The dank river smell was heavier here, almost like a fluid trickling into his lungs.

  The corpse’s feet were small and — oddly, for a beggar — wearing shoes. Its face was pushed down into the mud, the arms sprawled carelessly. James’s step quickened as he neared the body, and he turned it over roughly. It was short and slight, not a full-grown man at all. A boy, then. Why did that make it so much worse?

  He scrabbled at the muddy throat, irrationally searching for a pulse point, but almost immediately realized it was futile. The flesh was cool. James squatted beside the body. A glance at the tunnel mouth showed him Huggins and Davis trying to contain the crowd. Neither seemed very authoritative.

  With his handkerchief, James began to wipe mud from the features. It was unlikely the child would ever be identified, but he had to try. His stomach pitched slightly as he uncovered a few freckles. The glassy eyes seemed to focus on a point just behind his head. The eyelashes were caked in mud.

  His handkerchief was soon sodden but it was enough. James’s lips tightened as he looked down at the boy before him. The face was contorted and mud-smeared, the lips blue. But it was unmistakably he.

  Neither a mudlark nor a beggar.

  Not just any child.

  Alfred Quigley.

  His gut churned suddenly, and he turned aside just in time, vomiting his Sunday luncheon into the mud. The retching didn’t stop when his stomach was empty; violent convulsions shook his frame. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before Constable Huggins touched his shoulder, embarrassment dyeing his freckled face scarlet.

  “I’m sorry, sir. If I’d known it would bother you so . . .”

  James took the handkerchief Huggins offered. Tears mingled with sweat on his face. Now that the roar in his ears was fading, he could hear the audience jeering — from a safe distance, of course. “Thank you,” he said when he could speak.

  Huggins blushed and looked away. “Take your time, sir.”

  James straightened. “I can identify the boy. He worked for me.” Huggins’s mouth opened in a small circle, and James hurried on. “You think it was an accident?”

  Huggins looked about helplessly. “No reason for doing away with a boy, sir. I mean, if it were a girl, it’d be something else, ’specially if she was — you know. But a boy? And still in his clothes? Can’t see another explanation, sir.” At James’s frown, he rushed on. “I’ll check back at the station, of course, but I’m afraid we’re a bit shorthanded at the moment. This — this is my first suspicious death, sir.” He blushed again.

  James nodded slowly. “The boy’s named Quigley. He lived with his mother, a widow. I can give you their address.”

  Huggins nodded, relief evident in his posture. “The sooner it’s done the better, sir.” He looked back at his sergeant and gestured meaningfully.

  “You’re moving the child now?”

  “Sooner the better,” Huggins repeated. “That lot’ll have its teeth out the minute we turn our backs.”

  So Alfred Quigley was already “it.” James bent and closed the staring eyes.

  Huggins didn’t seem to object. “Good idea, sir. Bit nicer for the mother that way.”

  Nicer. Of course. Definitely nicer, being a widow with a dead child. He fished out his wallet with a grimy hand and thrust its contents into Huggins’s startled hand. “For the mother,” he muttered. “Funeral.” Blood money.

  James watched the tragicomic procession: the sullen sergeant with the boy’s body humped over his shoulder, followed by the timid but comfortingly human Constable Huggins. Flies were already swarming around the pool of vomit. He cast a final look at the ground and the patch where Alfred Quigley had been smothered. Then he turned and followed Huggins up out of the pit.

  Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. James was unaware of how long he’d been standing at the edge of the building site, staring at the river, with that taunt running through his head. Alfred Quigley’s death was his fault. There was no room for argument there. And instead of having the courage to tell Mrs. Quigley the news himself, he’d given Huggins the address and left it at that. There was no particular reason for him to remain on site except that he couldn’t think what else to do. Going back to the comfort of his house would be a retreat he didn’t deserve.

  His gaze passed over the knot of people on the sticky riverbank. Disappointed scavengers, most of them. Except for — his eyes noted a familiar figure gliding past the embankment. What the devil was she doing on his site? Sudden anger fired him, and before he remembered that he’d sworn not to think of her again, he ran across the churned-up mud to intercept her.

  “What the blazes are you doing down here?” He barked the question as soon as he was within earshot.

  Mary turned, then looked around and down. She seemed surprised to see him. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

  He scrambled up the bank, wiped his palms on his ruined trousers, and glared at her. “You should be safe at home. Don’t you have a job to do?”

  “Listen to me,” she said quietly. She stepped closer, wrinkling her nose slightly at the fetid mud that coated him. “There are new developments.”

  He didn’t want to talk about new developments. All he wanted was to roar at her until she cried and then pack her off somewhere safe — wherever that might be. He opened his mouth to begin, but she was already talking.

  “Thorold’s been arrested. The police raided one of his ships near the warehouses.” She had no idea why the schedule had been pushed forward from Monday to Sunday.

  He froze, suddenly alert. “Go on.”

  “Two detectives from Scotland Yard came to the house during luncheon. They took him away. The warehouses are being searched and his files seized. It was a complete surprise — even Thorold hadn’t an inkling. He thought they’d come to interview him about the warehouse break-ins!”

  “What was he charged with?”

  “Smuggling stolen goods.” In a low tone, she summarized the matter of the Indian artifacts. He listened intently, frowning at the ground. Finally he asked, “Where is Gray?”

  “At the house. The detectives told him to present himself at the Yard tomorrow.”

  “And Mrs. Thorold?”

  “I was following her carriage. She called on a solicitor — I assume to arrange for Thorold’s bail and defense. I stopped when you hailed me, but she was on her way home.”

  He considered her in silence. She seemed pleased — even blooming — with the adventure of it all. “You’re certain she didn’t see you?”

  “I was careful.”

  “I hope so, for your sake.”

  She frowned at his tone. “What does that mean?”

  An image of Alfred Quigley’s dead face, muddy and blue-lipped, flashed before his eyes. He had to protect Mary from the same fate. “I can’t explain,” he said in a tense voice. “But listen to me, Mary. We’re clear of this situation
. Thorold’s affairs will be thoroughly investigated. There’s nothing left for you to do. Get yourself a new post, and don’t think about it any further.”

  “But —”

  “If a trail exists for that lost parlor maid Thorold made pregnant — and I very much doubt it does — the police will find it. The best thing you can do is keep yourself clear of this mess.”

  “That’s what you’ve decided?” Oddly, she wasn’t outraged. Her eyes were distinctly green today and bright with excitement.

  He worked to keep his voice level. Cool. “Yes.”

  “All right, then. What’s your plan?”

  He shook his head. “You’re not listening to me. There is no plan. You need to get away from the Thorolds — the whole damned household — as soon as possible and before Thorold is released on bail. Today.” He watched her open, eager expression dissolve as she grasped his meaning. Finally.

  She closed her eyes for a long moment, and he was glad for the chance to study her face. To take a lingering look. To memorize its contours. The moment didn’t last long. “Let me understand this clearly: You’re telling me to quit? To — to run away and mind my own business, like a good girl?”

  He shifted his weight. “I didn’t mean it like that.” When her eyes were open, he was always on the defensive.

  “You arrogant swine! You’re telling me what to do — making all the decisions — after we agreed to be partners! Equal partners. We shook hands on it!”

  “I know. I would explain if I could. . . .”

  “But you can’t or won’t or don’t have a good reason, so I’ll just have to take your word for it!”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t say that if it weren’t extremely important. Don’t you see that?”

  She stared into his eyes. “Tell me.” He began to open his mouth, and she added, “And don’t say you can’t, for my own good.”

  He closed his lips. For once, he was at a loss for words. What could he tell her? Thorold will stop at nothing. He’s murdered an innocent child and now I’m afraid for your life? The situation seemed so far-fetched, and she was so reckless. Fired by her sense of justice, blinded by her fearlessness, she wouldn’t listen to him. If anything, she’d set out to avenge Alfred Quigley. And run straight into danger. He groaned. It was hopeless.