The Agency: A Spy in the House

by Y. S. Lee

  “I would say take your time, but you did say that matters were pressing. . . .”

  He felt trapped by her gaze. Pinned to a card like an insect in a specimen case. The seconds — and then a full minute, and then two — ticked by.

  Her eyes narrowed. “No? Then perhaps you can answer this: who are you to decide what’s best for me?”

  That was simple, wasn’t it? A collaborator, originally. A coconspirator, certainly. A friend, surely. But suddenly all those seemed such weak descriptions compared with how he felt. And that realization frightened him as much as anything else he’d seen today.

  “James . . .”

  His heart was going much too fast. He could feel it in his throat. “It’s too dangerous. That’s all I can tell you. You must do as I say.” His voice was overloud.

  She flushed with temper. “Because I’m a mere, weak woman?”

  “No. Because you’re a novice, and a reckless one at that, and there’s nothing you can do to help anybody.” He tried to sound as cold and matter-of-fact as he could.

  Her eyes widened with hurt.

  “Mary?” He hated playing the brute. “Don’t look like that.”

  She didn’t move or reply.

  “You’ll be fine, Mary. You’ll find another place. You can still get a letter, a character, from your old school, can’t you? You were only with the Thorolds for —”

  Angrily, she shook off his hands. “Don’t touch me.”

  He hadn’t realized he’d reached for her. “Very well. But tell me . . .”

  “I have to go.”

  “At least let me take you home.”

  She straightened and met his gaze, and now instead of distress, he saw anger. “As you pointed out, Mr. Easton, we are both well rid of this mess. Therefore, there is no reason for us to continue this conversation or for you to be concerned for me.” She waved away his attempt to speak. “Thank you for your assistance. I wish you well in all your business endeavors.”

  “So . . .” He studied her face carefully. “This is farewell forever?”

  She lifted her chin. “Aren’t you pleased? I know I am.”

  In a day that had already exceeded itself for melodrama, the first thing Mary encountered back at Cheyne Walk was another scene in the drawing room: Mrs. Thorold, tragic and weak, leaning against the back of a chair for support; Angelica, pale and tearstained, clutching Michael’s hand; Michael guilt-stricken but resolute. As she entered the room, only their gazes swerved to meet her. Their bodies remained otherwise frozen.

  Mrs. Thorold returned her attention to the guilty couple. “Miss Quinn . . . would you be surprised if I told you that my daughter is married?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Or if I told you to whom she is married?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  The woman turned to Mary. Her face was flushed with rage, and her pockmarks stood out more than ever. “I take it, then, that you helped them in this pathetic little scheme.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A sound of protest came from Michael, but Mrs. Thorold silenced him with a curt gesture. “Who else in the household participated in this deception?”

  “No one else, ma’am.”

  A heavy, skeptical silence followed. “I see.” She spoke to Mary with a serene air. “You, of course, are dismissed.”

  There was a brief pause, during which she considered her new son-in-law. “You’ll soon be arrested.”

  Angelica gasped, but Michael didn’t flinch.

  Mrs. Thorold’s gaze traveled to the trembling figure of her daughter. “As for you, my girl . . . my only child . . .” She smiled. “Not a penny. Nothing but the clothes on your back.”

  Angelica’s mouth fell open. She had been pale before, but now all hint of color rapidly drained from her face, leaving even her lips chalky.

  Mrs. Thorold observed the effect of her words with apparent satisfaction. “William will escort you both from the house. Ring the bell, Miss Quinn.”

  “Mama?” whispered Angelica. “Please . . .”

  Mrs. Thorold’s glare fell on her like a blade. “You’d have done better to elope,” she said with crisp relish. “You could then have taken some jewels.”

  Michael stared at her in horror. “My God — it’s one thing to cut off your only child and another to enjoy it! Are you mad?”

  Mrs. Thorold flicked a glance at Mary. “I said, ring the bell!”

  Mary clasped her hands before her. “No.”

  “How dare you? You are my servant, Miss Quinn!”

  “You fired me not two minutes ago.”

  Meanwhile, Michael put a protective arm around Angelica. “Hold on to me, darling; I’ll take care of you.” He shot a dark look at his mother-in-law. “No need to ring, madam. Mrs. Gray and I will see ourselves out.”

  Angelica seemed about to faint.

  Mrs. Thorold clutched the back of a heavily carved chair with an effort that turned her knuckles white. “Get out!” she spat. “Leave my house this instant, you ungrateful wretch!”

  Mary placed herself between mother and daughter. “Mrs. Thorold, you have nothing to gain by turning out Mrs. Gray now instead of in an hour’s time.”

  “Haven’t I?” The older woman’s eyes glittered as she looked past Mary at Angelica’s slumped body. “I lost my son and heir years ago, my husband is a fool, and now this strumpet can’t even make a decent match. What else have I to lose?”

  “The neighbors will have less to gossip about if she’s able to walk from the house.”

  For a moment, Mrs. Thorold seemed to consider Mary with new interest. Then her hand fluttered to her forehead. “All this turmoil has been terribly enervating. I shall be resting in my boudoir, and I am not to be interrupted under any circumstances. When I emerge, you will all be gone.”

  Once she had limped from the room, Mary went to the drinks table. She poured two large measures of brandy and handed them to the Grays. “Drink that.”

  In the long silence that followed, Michael swallowed his in a single gulp, poured another, and repeated the procedure. Angelica sipped hers mechanically. There was a long silence, broken only by the chiming of the clock on the hour.

  A full ten minutes passed before anyone spoke. Angelica broke the silence. “This morning, I prayed to be independent. It looks as though my prayer has been granted.” Her tone was dry and neutral.

  Mary inspected her for signs of hysteria but found none.

  Michael sat down and took her hand. “You can depend on me, darling.”

  Angelica turned to him. “Can I?”

  “Of course you can! We’re man and wife now!”

  She looked at Mary. “Are we?”

  Mary was startled. “I was your witness.”

  “I know. You signed your name in the register.” Angelica drained her brandy glass. “But you look very young for twenty, Mary.”

  Mary’s cheeks and throat felt hot. “Do I?” Her voice sounded rusty.

  “Are you sure you’re not younger? Quite a lot younger?”

  Michael stared at them both in distress. “That’s ridiculous!”

  Angelica was the calmest person in the room. “If I had to guess your age, Mary, I’d say sixteen. Seventeen, at most.”

  Mary bowed her head. “It was wrong of me to deceive you. I was only trying to help.”

  Michael attempted to speak, but Angelica’s cool voice sliced through his sputtering. “It was wrong,” she agreed, “but I’m rather glad of it. It provides grounds for an annulment.”

  Both Mary and Michael swung about to stare at her.

  “Anj? Darling? What are you saying?”

  “Are you feeling well, Angelica?”

  Angelica lifted a hand in a gesture reminiscent of her mother’s. “I’m perfectly well.” She took a deep breath. “After our conversation this morning, Mary, I spent a long time thinking about what I wanted. It was difficult. While I’d always known what I wanted in terms of dresses and jewelry and the most roma
ntic marriage proposal in the world, I’d never thought about life beyond that point. You’ll think that shallow and foolish, Mary.”

  “Darling!” said Michael. “That’s what all girls think of.”

  Angelica smiled sadly. “So it seems. But this morning, I finally began to think again. And I have changed my mind about what I want.”

  Mary sudden realized the delicacy of the situation. “I ought not be here. You two need to talk about this.”

  As she stood, Michael’s arm shot out to restrain her. “You might as well stay. It’s your doing, after all.” He turned to his disputed wife. “Angelica — what is this all about?”

  Angelica looked steadily at Michael. “Now that my mother has disowned me and our marriage is not legal, I’m free to do what I really want.”

  Mary stared at her, fascinated. This Angelica was a new creature. She had the same round blue eyes, the same soft blond beauty, but there was a new kind of sharpness about her; a concentrated focus.

  “My music teacher, Herr Schwartz, has long urged me to go for further training abroad. He has some professional connections in Vienna. I spoke to him this morning, asking if it was not too late to begin lessons with one of his associates.”

  “If all you want is more pianoforte lessons —”

  Angelica’s hand again stopped Michael’s words. “The music lessons are only a beginning. Herr Schwartz thinks I have potential, that I might have a future as a concert pianist.” She stopped and drew a shaky breath. “It’s a terrifying prospect, of course. I’ve never really wanted to go abroad, and now I shall have to support myself by giving music lessons in a foreign city! But if Herr Schwartz is able to arrange it, that is what I intend to do.”

  There was a stunned silence.

  When Michael spoke, his voice was gentle, cajoling — the sort of tone one might use with a sick animal or an irrational child. “Angelica, love, you never told me about all this. If you want more music lessons — even if they must be in Vienna — what has that to do with an annulment?”

  Angelica blinked. “You wouldn’t want to go to Vienna.”

  “For you, darling? Of course I would! After all, you can’t very well travel alone, let alone live in foreign parts without a protector. Why, you’d be an easy mark for every crook and unscrupulous so-called gentleman. . . . You must have your husband with you, sweetheart.”

  “How could we live? You heard my mother disown me. Music lessons pay little. I couldn’t support two, let alone three.”

  Michael flushed. “You wouldn’t have to work, of course,” he said stiffly. “I would provide for you — and our future family.”

  Angelica shook her head. “We’ve wandered from the point. Michael, my decision is already made.”

  There was a very long silence.

  When Michael spoke again, his voice was hard. “Yesterday, you married me. You told me that you loved me and that you would be my wife. Today, you want nothing to do with me, and you’re willing to flee to a foreign city in order to get rid of me. I demand to know what has happened in the meantime!” He turned to Mary, his face twisted with anger. “What the devil did you say to her?”

  Angelica stood. “You have every right to be angry, Michael, but you mustn’t shout at Mary. This is purely my decision.”

  He crumpled suddenly: voice, face, posture. “Then why?”

  Angelica reseated herself and waited for him to do the same. After a few moments, she said slowly, “Michael, you’re a fine man, but I married you primarily to defy my parents. They wanted me to marry a rich and powerful businessman, and I chose the poorest man I knew.” Michael flinched, but she continued as though she hadn’t noticed; perhaps she hadn’t. “I don’t love you enough to remain married to you, now that every other aspect of my life is changed. I’ve always been terribly selfish; you may think I don’t know it, but I do. And I shall continue to be so. I’m going to remain a spinster and study music in Vienna and disregard anyone who attempts to stop me.” She slipped the wedding band from her finger and offered it to him. “It’s a worthless thing to say, Michael, but I am sorry.”

  His gaze remained fixed on the carpet for a long time.

  Mary scarcely dared to breathe.

  Angelica kept her hand outstretched, offering back the thin circlet of gold.

  After some time, he carefully composed his face. “I’m sure you’ll manage in Vienna.”

  “I — I’m frightfully sorry, Michael,” Angelica murmured.

  “Yes, you said that before.”

  “You’ll find someone better than me; someone who appreciates you,” said Angelica with forced brightness. It was exactly the wrong thing to say.

  “No, I won’t. I’m going to prison.”

  “The police investigation should clear you,” Mary said. “If you tell them what you told me yesterday . . . You could show them those documents you copied. . . .”

  He shrugged and stood. “I very much doubt they’ll listen. If you’ll excuse me, ladies . . .” He left the room with his shoulders slumped, a far cry from his usual suave, elegant self.

  Angelica looked at Mary, eyes wide. “Do you think I did the right thing?”

  “Which part? Asking for the annulment?”

  “All of it, I suppose.” Angelica rolled the wedding band between finger and thumb. “It’s terrifying to be on the verge of finally getting what you want.”

  “Is it?”

  “I keep wondering if I should take it all back. Of course, I don’t really want to.”

  Mary grinned suddenly. “Well, if you change your mind, there’s always George Easton. . . .”

  Numb.

  That was the word for his hands and the curious, cold feel of his lips. Pity it didn’t apply to his emotions. James stared at the crumpled bit of paper he’d just fished from his pocket: half a sheet of writing paper folded neatly in thirds and addressed to J. Easton, Esq., in painstaking, rather wobbly printing. It was Alfred Quigley’s letter. James had forgotten all about it until he’d gone looking for his spare handkerchief.

  It was irrelevant now, of course — along with James’s plans to employ the lad properly or to help him get a decent education or any of the good intentions he’d so resented this morning. Yet what the hell was he to do with the note? It seemed to vibrate between his fingers — in truth a tremor most likely caused by the mild breeze or James’s own nerves — and the movement made it seem alive. With a sigh, James unfolded the paper.

  Saterday 9 pm

  Deer Mr. Easton

  Ther is sumthing rong at the Saylers Refy House, its to do with the Famly in Chelsy and the China-man. I will explane all wen I see you next but I thot you shood no now.

  Yrs sincerly, A. Quigley

  James felt an immediate cold queasiness that had nothing to do with the river’s stink. Last night, Alfred Quigley had been alive and well and making plans for the following day. This afternoon, he was dead and cold. Certainly, life was nasty, brutish, and short — particularly if one was poor — but this was surely too great a coincidence. Quigley knew something about Thorold and the Lascars’ refuge; Quigley reported it to James; Quigley turned up dead on James’s building site. The boy was killed not merely because he was in the way but because he’d uncovered something important. And this scrap of paper was the link between the discovery and the murder.

  James ran several streets from the building site before finding a cab, and even then, the first two declined to drive him because of the state of his clothing. It was just over three miles to Limehouse, and the driver, spurred on by the promise of a tip, set a smart pace.

  “Stop here,” said James at the entrance to George Villas.

  “I ain’t waiting here,” the cabbie said sullenly. “Don’t wait for nobody in this part of town, not even the Prince of Wales.”

  Wise man, thought James, and emptied his pockets of coins large and small.

  The front of the Lascars’ home was like a blind face. He jerked sharply on the bellpull and waited.
Nothing. He rang again. Still nothing. A vigorous rap on the door, however, pushed it ajar.

  “Mr. Chen?” he called, stepping gingerly into the front hall. The smell of the place was thick in his nostrils and familiar from his last visit. Incense, he remembered. Mothballs. Chinese herbal medicines. Unfamiliar spices. And below all that, traditional English damp rot and mildew that caught him in the throat. His voice seemed to churn up the air in the foyer.

  “Hello? Mr. Chen?” he called again, to be answered only by stillness.

  The last time he’d been here, Mr. Chen had answered the door promptly. Perhaps he had Sundays off?

  “Is anyone in?” he called, very loudly this time. There had to be some servant about. When the echo of his voice died out, James felt the first prickle of anxiety. First, Alfred Quigley. Then the arrest of Thorold. What else was wrong? Had they all cleared out? They couldn’t all be in it together — all those frail old men? But Chen could. Chen could have used the place as a center of operations, and Chen could have escaped by now. That made sense: banish the old men, give the servants the day off, and disappear.

  Damn it. The whole time that old man was filling him with nonsense about penniless Lascars, he’d been working with Thorold. It was a fine front, of course. Who would suspect a sweet-faced old Chinese man?

  The door of the manager’s office stood ajar, and when he pushed it wide, even James was startled. The room had been ransacked — although the word implied a degree of method that didn’t seem quite right here. The carpet was littered with reams of paper, most of it trampled and shredded by heavy boots. All the drawers and cabinets were torn open, spilling their entrails onto the floor. The shelves were tipped over, along with their contents. He couldn’t be sorry that the hideous oil painting was kicked through or its gilded frame broken. But the curtains, too, were pulled down, one side of the brass rail slumped against the ground. This was more than simple robbery. There was rage here.