The Agency: A Spy in the House
Page 24
“The old man who managed the place? Oh, that was a shame. Must have been overcome by smoke, although — between you and me —” the young man leaned in confidentially, “it wasn’t too great a loss. Apparently, the man was an opium fiend.”
“He wasn’t!”
He looked at her patronizingly. “Well, proof is proof, no matter what you like to think, and there was an enormous drug apparatus in his room when he died. Not that he won’t get a decent Christian burial, after all that.”
Mary turned away.
“I say!” he called after her. “No need to be like that! What’s your name, anyway?”
She ignored his cries. She walked as fast as she could, deaf and blind to everything around her. But when she came to Victoria Park, she suddenly halted, unsure what to do or where to go.
She had just won the battle against tears when there was a light touch on her elbow. Turning, she found herself face to face with the inevitable.
He was elegant in a well-cut suit and polished boots. As his dark gaze skimmed over her, she had a sudden urge to flee. She was wearing an old, faded dress; her hair had begun to slip its knot; she was regrettably hot and sweaty.
“Hello,” she said, and instantly felt it was inadequate.
“I’ve been following you for a while, but you didn’t hear me calling. Are you all right?”
She nodded.
“You were coming from the Lascars’ refuge?”
“You went too?”
“I was hoping to pay my respects to Mr. Chen’s body.”
The silence stretched out between them.
“You look unharmed,” she finally murmured. “Does your head still hurt?”
He shook his head. “The damage was minor: a few cracked ribs, a headache. Nothing serious.” There was a brief pause, and he hurried on. “You look very well, too.”
Liar. She smoothed her hair self-consciously. “Thank you.” Another of those awkward silences loomed, and she said shyly, “You must be very busy. I ought not to detain you.”
He held out his arm. “I’d rather take a walk with you. If your employers permit such things?”
“Of course it’s permitted!” she flashed back, and then grinned. “You do bring out the worst in me. Mannerswise, anyway.”
He grinned back. “I think I like you better when you’re rude.”
She took his arm, and they strolled across the park toward the small boating lake. He was silent again, and the faint frown between his brows was delightfully familiar to her. He seemed to be searching for words.
He smiled at her, but his gaze was serious. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“I hoped you could explain something to me.” That little frown deepened, and he pushed on hurriedly. “I can understand the business with Thorold — it’s precisely the sort of thing I was afraid of. But how did Mr. Chen fit into all of this? Why would Mrs. Thorold need to kill him?”
Back to business. Of course, she should have known. “Didn’t she tell you?”
“She didn’t think it worth boasting about.” Much like the murder of Alfred Quigley. He still felt sick when he thought about it. His visit to Mrs. Quigley this morning ranked among the most uncomfortable incidents of his life.
“I’m not certain. But I do have a theory.”
“Go on.”
“Mr. Chen may have been on her trail. What if a couple of Lascars sometimes survived a pirate’s attack, either because they escaped or were spared — perhaps to help crew the pirate ship? Even if they reported the crime, who would believe them over an English captain? Authorities would assume they were confused, or lying, or that they had misunderstood something in English. But Mr. Chen knew hundreds of Lascars. What if he’d begun to suspect something — had heard similar stories, and was following up on them?”
“And thus was silenced?”
“I’ve no proof, of course — but yes.”
They reached the lake, and James stooped to pick up a handful of pebbles. He threw them into the lake, one by one. “That brings me to my second question,” he said, turning to her rather fiercely. “You couldn’t have known I was at the Lascars’ refuge on Sunday afternoon. I went, like a good little idiot, because Mrs. Thorold lured me there.”
“I went because of Mrs. Thorold, too. Nothing was clearly explained in her notebook, but once I saw it, I became worried for Mr. Chen’s safety . . . and yours.”
He stared at her. “How do you mean?”
It was difficult to explain. “I didn’t expect to find you there, but I also wasn’t surprised to see you.” He was still looking at her with unsettling intensity. She couldn’t bear his gaze any longer and looked away. Shrugged. “I just . . . had a feeling. A conviction that you were . . . there.”
“In danger?”
“If you like.”
He tossed the last stone into the lake. “Mary? There’s one more thing.” He sounded nervous and his gaze didn’t quite meet hers.
She waited in silence.
“I, ah — this is very sudden, and I’m not — what I have to tell you . . .” He sighed and turned to face the lake. When he spoke again, the words came out in a rush. “I’m going away.”
Mary stared. While she hadn’t known exactly what he might say, this was truly unexpected. “Where to?”
“Calcutta. We — the firm — have a contract to build railways.”
She tried to look pleased for him. “That’s marvelous news.”
He studied her face. “Do you think so?”
“Of course! It’s an excellent way to build the firm.”
He nodded. “I’m glad you think so.”
“When do you leave?”
“I sail next week.”
She drew a deep breath. “You move quickly.”
“Originally George was supposed to go while I ran things from this end. But this Thorold business has scrambled everything, and he’s changed his mind.” Amusement crept into his voice. “Did you know that he wanted to marry Angelica and take her straight to India?”
Mary laughed. “No!”
“Ironic, isn’t it? That her fate was tied to India through both her father and her suitor?”
“She’s managed to avoid both fates.” Mary briefly described Angelica’s new plans.
James let out a low whistle. “Wonder if I should tell George that she’s single once again.”
“But your worst fears about Thorold have come true. Are you not still opposed to the marriage?”
He shrugged awkwardly. “Well, yes, of course . . . but if George knows the worst and still wants to marry her, what can I say? Maybe he really does love her.”
She laughed. “That’s a very large concession, coming from you.”
“One day you’ll appreciate the finer points of my character.”
“Finer points? Plural?”
“So many you’ll grow dizzy trying to count them.”
They stood there for a long moment, smiling at each other. Then Mary drew a deep breath. “Well, I suppose this is good-bye.”
“I suppose it is.”
“You’ll do brilliantly in India.”
“Do you think so?”
“With all those fine character traits . . .”
He laughed, then became serious once more. “Mary . . .”
The expression in his eyes set her heart pounding. “Yes?”
Twice he began to frame a sentence, and twice his voice seemed to fail him.
And she thought she understood. What could he possibly say to her now, when he was on the verge of leaving forever? Even something as simple as asking her to write to him carried a distinct sort of promise, the type of promise he was ten years and half a world removed from being able to make.
She forced a polite smile and held out her hand. “Good luck, James.”
Regret — and relief — flooded his eyes. He took her hand, cradling it for a long moment. “And to you.”
It was foolish to linger. S
he slid her fingers from his grasp, turned, and began to walk away in the direction of the Academy. She’d gone about thirty paces when she heard his voice.
“Mary!”
She spun about. “What is it?”
“Stay out of wardrobes!”
She laughed, shook her head, and began to walk again. She was smiling this time.
Y. S. LEE was born in Singapore and raised in Vancouver and Toronto. In 2004, she completed her Ph.D. in Victorian literature and culture. This research, combined with time spent in London, inspired her to begin the Agency trilogy. About A Spy in the House, her first novel, she says, “Women’s choices were grim in those days, even for the clever. If a top secret women’s detective agency existed in Victorian England, it left no evidence — just as well, since that would cast serious doubt on its competence. The Agency is a totally unrealistic, completely fictitious antidote to the fate that would otherwise swallow a girl like Mary Quinn.” Y. S. Lee now lives in Ontario with her husband and young son.