The Agency: A Spy in the House

by Y. S. Lee

  After breakfast, Mary was summoned to the teachers’ common room. It promised to be another warm day. Her heart thumped hard enough to make her breathing shaky and her lips tremble. She knocked on the door, two crisp raps, and was pleased to be able to control her nerves to that small extent.

  “Come in.”

  She entered and sat on the blasted horsehair chair, daring it to slide her onto the carpet. “Good morning, Miss Treleaven, Mrs. Frame.”

  Greetings were returned, tea poured. Not Lapsang souchong. Mary immediately set hers on a side table so that the cup wouldn’t rattle in its saucer.

  Anne sipped her tea, set down her cup, and fixed her sharp gray gaze on Mary. “We hope you are feeling better after the events of Sunday.”

  “Entirely, thank you.” She’d nearly gone mad after thirty-six hours of enforced bed rest and barley water to soothe her smoke-scorched throat.

  “We have asked you here this evening, Mary, to present your report on the affair of Henry Thorold. As you know, his case is now concluded, and he is in police custody.”

  “And Mrs. Thorold?” The question slipped out before she could think to repress it.

  “Still at large.” Anne’s clipped tone was the only indication of her frustration. “Scotland Yard believes she may have fled the country.”

  Mary’s eyes widened. “She must have left on Sunday — immediately after setting fire to the refuge. Perhaps that’s why she didn’t use enough paraffin to burn down the house; she was in a hurry.”

  “All possible,” said Felicity. “And if she had had a false passport ready, she could easily have been in France on Sunday night.”

  “In the future, the Agency might have an opportunity to help Scotland Yard find Mrs. Thorold,” said Anne. “But we are meeting here now to discuss her husband. Before I present our final report on him to Scotland Yard, there are a number of details I should like to confirm with you and which should prove useful to the prosecution. You may begin whenever you are ready.”

  Mary shouldn’t have been rattled by Anne’s formality, but she had to swallow hard before finding her voice. “As you know, I first went to Cheyne Walk to observe the Thorold family without expecting to be an active participant in the case.” Her voice was still huskier than usual, but at least it was steady. “I eventually learned that the secretary, Michael Gray — whom we’d suspected as part of the ring — was also suspicious of Thorold. Gray informed me that he’d taken secret copies of some relevant documents and hidden them safely. I believe the police retrieved the relevant documents from him?”

  Anne nodded. “I understand that he was very cooperative. He is, however, still under investigation. Your report may certainly help to clear him of any wrongdoing.”

  “I hope so.” Mary took a deep breath. “While I was searching Thorold’s files, I met James Easton, who was searching for related information.” She couldn’t control the blush that stained her cheeks, but pushed on. “Working together, we discovered the Lascars’ refuge in Limehouse and Mrs. Thorold’s house in Pimlico. At that point, I had nearly all the information I needed, but couldn’t see how to put it together until it was nearly too late. The missing link between Thorold, the Lascars’ refuge, and the Pimlico house was, of course, Mrs. Thorold. I should have known better than to underestimate a woman,” she added, “even one pretending to be an invalid.

  “But I did underestimate Mrs. Thorold. She was clever: she disguised her business as an illicit affair. It was a perfect stereotype. And in a sense, it was also the truth. Mrs. Thorold was betraying her husband’s confidence, but instead of committing adultery, she was running her own business.

  “In hindsight, I ought to have been more suspicious of Mrs. Thorold. Her performance didn’t quite cohere; she was weak and passive at some times and quite assertive and strong-willed at others. In fact, Thorold was much the better actor: he seemed to be a very ordinary, slightly stressed businessman, not one whose trade was being sabotaged by his wife and whose company was on the brink of failure. I allowed myself to be distracted by Mrs. Thorold. It wasn’t until the last minute, when Cassandra Day showed me the notebook she had found, that I realized Mrs. Thorold was actually engaged in business.” Here, she paused. “You know, of course, that James Easton managed to wring a fairly comprehensive explanation from her?”

  Anne raised one eyebrow. “I believe it was quite a classic, theatrical villainous confession: high-seas piracy, revenge, marital discord.”

  “He must be a persuasive young man,” Felicity said with a grin.

  Mary didn’t take the bait. “The weakness in our theory, of course, is that it depends on that confession. The notebook is a very careful document — it contains financial information without any direct references to the business. It could belong to hundreds of other people.”

  “But something in it led you to the Lascars’ refuge. . . .” said Felicity.

  Mary hesitated. “Yes . . . there’s a tiny pencil reference to the address of the refuge and the surname of the warden. But it’s very cryptic. My decision to go there was partly — perhaps largely — a matter of . . . instinct.”

  “There’s no reason why reason and instinct can’t coexist,” said Anne gravely.

  Mary nodded, grateful for the affirmation. “I believe you know the details of Mrs. Thorold’s piracy better than I; you’ve spoken to James yourselves?”

  “‘James’?” Anne’s eyebrows lifted.

  “Mr. Easton,” Mary corrected herself. Her cheeks were burning.

  “Ah. Yes, you were excluded from those interviews for reasons of security. We didn’t meet him ourselves, of course; that was a matter for the Yard. But we did read the transcripts of his evidence. Her house in Pimlico was searched yesterday and while most of the papers appear to have been burned — there were a lot of ashes in the grate — there are enough indicators for us to formulate a theory.

  “We know from her own boasting that Mrs. Thorold directed a pirate crew who attacked her husband’s ships on the high seas; she probably used detailed routes and cargo information stolen from his files. She seems to have had an accomplice in the firm, most likely a junior manager named Samuels, who didn’t turn up for work yesterday. His lodgings are deserted, and no one knows where he is.

  “We aren’t certain when Thorold realized what she was doing. It may have been quite recently, since his will was revised to include the Lascars’ refuge only last year. It’s possible he was afraid no one would believe that he’d been ignorant for so long. A wife is the property of her husband, and what she knows, her husband knows. That is the presumption in law and in practice, and she must have counted on that to keep her secret safe. Who could have imagined that Mrs. Thorold, of her own initiative, was assembling pirate gangs, attacking her husband’s ships, stealing his cargoes, and murdering his crews?”

  All three women were silent, still shocked by the enormity of the scheme.

  Finally, Mary said quietly, “Thorold used the cheapest foreign sailors he could find. He was proud of his cost-cutting initiative — ‘one of the benefits of empire’ was how he described it one evening at home. His cut-rate crews would have worked to Mrs. Thorold’s advantage, too, as no one thought to inquire into the deaths of a few dozen Lascars.” She paused and thought of Mr. Chen. “Almost no one, at any rate. Lloyd’s was interested mainly in the actual goods lost.”

  Felicity nodded eagerly. “The insurance company: that’s another interesting point. As suspected, Thorold was indeed defrauding Lloyd’s, claiming that ships were lost or capsized when they’d actually arrived safely with all goods — including the smuggled ones — intact. As Michael Gray’s evidence shows, Thorold bribed a man called Mays to manipulate the internal investigation and destroy evidence of his fraud, with some success. However, he could only cover up the truth for so long before Lloyd’s became suspicious of Mays’s honesty.

  “At about the same time, Thorold began to make genuine claims for cargoes stolen by pirates. He must have been bes
ide himself when he learned that his real payouts were jeopardized by the earlier, false ones. And he couldn’t afford to go uninsured: piracy was threatening the survival of his business.

  “All he could do was try to brazen it out. His ships were being attacked with astonishing regularity, and he must soon have suspected somebody with inside information. It’s not yet clear when he realized it was his wife, but eventually he did. That’s probably why he named the Lascars’ refuge in his will; it was his way of trying to make amends.”

  “And perhaps,” observed Anne, “a sort of indirect confession. Was it the will, Mary, that prompted you to make the connection between Chelsea and Limehouse?”

  “Yes.” Mary quickly steered the conversation away from Lascars. “We knew about the house in Pimlico because she spent time there regularly, as did Mr. Samuels. But she never visited Limehouse. It was only through a series of unforeseen events — James Easton’s involvement, the address in the notebook found by Cass Day — that we found the link at all.” She ground to a halt and looked at her employers.

  Anne nodded gravely. “Thank you for your summary, Mary. The work you did was extremely valuable. You must have some questions of your own at this point.”

  Mary nodded, blushing with the pleasure of an unexpected — and from Anne, lavish — compliment. “There are a few things I don’t understand,” she said carefully. “How did Mrs. Thorold discover James’s — I mean, Mr. Easton’s — involvement?”

  Anne nodded. “Mr. Easton had both the Pimlico house and the Lascars’ refuge under surveillance. One of his scouts, a ten-year-old boy, was discovered dead — murdered — on Sunday morning. He must have been spotted by Mrs. Thorold. It would have been relatively easy to trick the boy into giving up information before killing him. Ironically, the reason you escaped suspicion was that Mrs. Thorold didn’t believe that a young lady was capable of giving her trouble.”

  Irony, indeed.

  “That makes sense,” agreed Mary. “But why would Mrs. Thorold attack her husband’s business ventures? I can understand the need for a career beyond needlework and social visits; her own daughter found the same desire, and it’s something we all acknowledge here at the Academy. But to undermine her husband’s own trading operations . . . ? It seems neither intelligent nor farsighted.”

  Felicity nodded eagerly. “Of course. We can only speculate at this point, but Mr. Easton’s evidence indicates that she looked down upon her husband; deep-seated contempt is not too strong a phrase. Perhaps it was her way of getting revenge on him or proving that he’s her inferior.”

  “It’s possible to weave any number of explanations,” said Anne with faint reproach. “But only she would be able to tell you.”

  “Or possibly, she couldn’t. Marriages are complicated beasts,” said Felicity cheerfully. “The number of apparently devoted husbands and wives who’d like to kill and dismember their ‘better halves’ is quite astonishing.”

  Mary wondered about “Mrs.” Felicity Frame. She’d never mentioned a Mr. Frame. . . .

  “Next question?” Anne prompted her.

  “Why did Scotland Yard move in a day early? I thought they’d agreed to act on Monday.”

  Anne looked mildly annoyed. “That was nearly disastrous. A rather keen superintendent at the Yard thought that if Monday was timely, then Sunday would be better yet. It was fortunate that the ship was already docked, waiting to be unloaded, or else there would have been no physical proof.”

  Mary nodded. “I see. I hope the primary agent wasn’t compromised. . . .”

  “The primary agent is an extremely capable operative,” said Anne. “She certainly didn’t appreciate your interference at the warehouses, but she’s equal to almost any surprise.”

  Mary flushed. “Of course.”

  “Think of it this way,” said Felicity more gently. “You’re her colleague and thus the last person from whom she expects surprises, especially when they go against orders. Your warehouse escapade resulted in no harm, but it did cause her inconvenience.”

  Mary struggled to find an answer that didn’t sound glib or defensive, but Anne broke in with unexpected gentleness. “We needn’t revisit that now, as you’ve learned from the experience. Do you have further questions?”

  “Only one . . .” She hesitated. “This is perhaps inappropriate, but how do you feel about dogs?”

  Anne blinked. “Dogs! As pets?”

  Mary nodded.

  “Here at the Academy?” Anne couldn’t quite control the distaste on her face.

  Felicity frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  “Thorold kept a guard dog,” Mary said apologetically. “Not much of a guard dog. It was more interested in playing with strangers than keeping them at bay . . . but I can’t help but wonder what’s happened to it.”

  “I suppose you got to know the dog on your nocturnal rounds?” Felicity asked.

  “Not very well,” admitted Mary. “But it was a lovely mongrel. . . .”

  Felicity looked at Anne. “I’ll make inquiries,” she said firmly. “Yes, darling, I know you can’t stand the beasts, but even a dog shouldn’t suffer just because its owner’s a criminal.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That reminds me, Mary. . . . This is rather a personal question. . . .”

  “Yes, Miss Treleaven?” Mary steeled herself for an inquiry about her parentage. Although she dreaded what might come, there would also be a kind of relief in being able to speak of her father. . . .

  Yet Anne seemed distinctly uncomfortable, and remained silent.

  After a glance at her tongue-tied colleague, Felicity spoke again. “It’s about your associate, James Easton.”

  So her secret was still safe. Even so, the new subject was also extremely awkward and there was no controlling the wash of heat that flooded her throat, her cheeks, the tips of her ears. On Sunday afternoon, Anne and Felicity had found her huddled with James against the lamppost outside the Lascars’ refuge, giggling hysterically at their escape. They’d certainly appeared to be more than “associates” then.

  “We would not pry into your personal friendships if you were an ordinary teacher at the Academy,” said Felicity carefully. “But as a member of the Agency, we must ask you: how much does James Easton know?”

  “Nothing of the Agency,” said Mary quickly. “We met quite by accident under circumstances that were suspicious for both of us.” Her cheeks burned as she recalled those minutes in the wardrobe. “When he demanded an explanation, I told him that I wanted to know what had become of the last parlor maid. It was common knowledge in the servants’ hall that she had fallen pregnant and that Thorold was the father.”

  “And he believed you?” persisted Felicity.

  “I think so. He then he suggested that we work together in order to pool information.”

  “What was his motive for searching Thorold’s files?”

  “His brother was about to propose marriage to Angelica. Mr. Easton worried about how Thorold’s business affairs might reflect on the Eastons if the families were linked by marriage.”

  “Practical young man,” murmured Felicity. “Not the romantic type himself?”

  Mary blushed furiously again. “I don’t know, Mrs. Frame.”

  Felicity observed her closely for a minute, then smiled. “I see.”

  Mary was certain she did.

  She didn’t want James to court her or anything ridiculous like that. They were both far too young and from separate worlds besides. She would never be able to tell him about the Agency, let alone her criminal past or family history. They were too different even to be real friends. Yet she felt a sharp pang of regret as she thought about the end of their partnership. They’d worked well together, despite the squabbling and the mistrust. And she would miss him.

  No matter. As Mary stepped off the omnibus in Limehouse, she set aside thoughts of James, the Agency, and the Thorolds. She was finally free to think of her own interests today. As she neared the Lascars’ refu
ge, the fluttering in her stomach sped up. There was no reason to think she’d find the cigar box. Mr. Chen’s office had been thoroughly smashed up. But she wouldn’t be able to rest until she’d searched the wreckage herself.

  As Mary neared the refuge, she saw a small number of elderly Asian men carrying pails and crates of rubbish from its front door to a large wagon that blocked the street. They moved slowly, many of them apparently stiff with arthritis. A young white man in a bowler hat was giving them orders.

  The young man spotted Mary and bustled over. “Road’s closed here, miss.”

  She fought a sudden surge of nausea. “Are you clearing out the entire building?”

  He nodded. “There was a fire here on the weekend. All the contents are ruined, but by the mercy of God the building survived.”

  “All the contents? They’re just being thrown away?” Her voice sounded high and thin.

  “There was nothing worth saving,” said the supervisor defensively, “apart from some sticks of furniture, and the salvage man’s already come and gone. Why, that’s our third wagonload of rubbish today! Oh, yes, we’ve been busy. . . .” He went on to give details of the cleanup operation, details that she heard but failed to understand.

  “What a shame,” she finally choked out. That was it, then: her father’s legacy, lost once again. She’d never even had a chance to look at the documents in the cigar box.

  “Not a shame, miss,” the young man chided her. “It’s a blessing in disguise. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, and here He’s given us a new opportunity. The house needs refurbishment and these old Lascars need employment, and here we all are, working together!”

  She nodded unsteadily.

  “We’ll have to find some new funds, as we recently lost one of our benefactors, but . . .” He rattled on happily about fundraising and plans for a grand new refurbishment.

  “What happened to Mr. Chen?” interrupted Mary.