The Traitor in the Tunnel

by Y. S. Lee

  “There you are.”

  Mary started and turned. Surveying her from the doorway, a stiff, quizzical smile on her lips, was the second-to-last person in the palace she wanted to see. She bobbed stiffly. “Mrs. Dalrymple.” Mary was unsurprised when Honoria walked into the room and closed the door behind her. She was surprised, however, by the hints of uncertainty that hovered beneath the surface of Honoria’s neutral expression. And she was downright startled when Honoria began to speak.

  “This morning’s turn of events was unfortunate for all present,” said the lady-in-waiting in cordial, businesslike tones.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I bear no grudge against you, Quinn, for what you saw. You were simply doing your duty.” Her tone was magnanimous — and perhaps rightly so. Although she was only being reasonable, wounded pride was difficult to overcome.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Mary when it became clear that some response was expected.

  Honoria frowned and began to pace back and forth — signs of discomfort that surprised Mary even more. “I am not too blind to see things as they really are,” began Honoria. “Although, as you heard the gentleman say, I’m rather too mature for his tastes, it’s evident that you are not.” At this, she wheeled about and fixed Mary with a hard look.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Don’t trifle with me, Quinn. It’s plain that Bertie fancies you. It’s not every new parlor maid who’s ordered to fetch him breakfast, and he in his dressing gown.”

  Mary felt herself begin to blush in response. “It’s not like that, ma’am. Truly, I don’t want that sort of attention.”

  Honoria’s perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up. “You surprise me, dear girl. Most young women in your position would give their eyeteeth for such an opportunity.”

  So she was now Honoria’s “dear girl”? “You may think it strange, ma’am, but I do not find the idea appealing.”

  Honoria sat down on the nearest chair and crossed her ankles — a relaxed posture that failed to fool Mary. “So you prefer anonymous drudgery to life as the royal favorite?”

  Mary was taken aback. “There’s no saying I’d be the favorite, ma’am. A young man’s passing fancy would be the ruin of me.”

  “Pff! Such melodramatic words. Young women these days are all such timid things, full of shuddering prudery.”

  Mary permitted herself the faintest of smiles. “Are you suggesting that I try my luck, ma’am?”

  Honoria sat up very straight, looked Mary in the eye, and said, “I’ve a proposition for you, young lady. It will make your future, if you’ve the stomach for it.”

  Mary put down her polishing rag and assumed a listening posture. Finally, things were becoming interesting.

  “A woman who beds a man holds a great deal of power over him. He is often unaware of this, which makes it even more potent. She may ask him questions that nobody else dares or compel him to do things he would never otherwise consider. Do you follow me?”

  “I think so, ma’am.”

  “This gentleman has knowledge I want, information that will make a great deal of difference to me. You may be the young woman who can dig out that knowledge.”

  Mary’s eyes widened. “You’re asking me . . .”

  “To bed him,” said Honoria. She seemed to enjoy the phrase, uttering it with crisp relish. “He’s a young man. Almost certainly a virgin. And he desires you. It is for you to choose whether this stroke of good fortune will change your life or whether you’ll continue toiling in obscurity for a pittance.” She paused. “Think how easy life could be: No more work. A townhouse and a carriage. Servants of your own. Frocks and jewels and furs. These are the rewards of the best paramours.”

  Mary allowed her expression to glaze over with impressionable wonder. Honoria was an effective advocate for the courtesan’s life, if a highly biased one. Callow, uneducated housemaids didn’t reap the sorts of rewards she described; they were much more likely to end up pregnant, discarded, and in the poorhouse. However, Quinn the parlor maid wasn’t meant to understand that. “All that, just for . . . ?”

  A frosty smile.

  “But what if he doesn’t like me, after a little while?”

  Honoria leaned in for the kill. “I will look after you myself. There will be a generous reward and a letter of character. All you must do is get the information I require.”

  Mary made a show of mulling this over — slowly enough that she saw a flicker of impatience in Honoria’s eyes. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Dalrymple,” she said with exaggerated slowness. “But . . . I just don’t know.”

  Honoria smiled again, and this time there was more than a hint of cruelty in her lovely face. “Let me put this to you differently: you will use all your meager charms to coax the information I require from the gentleman. The instant you cease to comply, I shall have you sacked for immorality.”

  Mary gaped. “But . . . I ain’t never . . . I’m a good girl, Mrs. Dalrymple.”

  “But who would ever believe that?” Honoria’s smile grew wider. “Certainly not Mrs. Shaw, once I tell her that I caught you in the Prince of Wales’s bed this morning.”

  The two women stared at each other — one openly triumphant, the other privately so. A minute ticked past. And then another.

  “I’ll do it,” said Mary. “On two conditions.”

  “As I thought,” said Honoria with a smirk. “Finer mettle than first appears.”

  “I want this afternoon free. Will you arrange that with Mrs. Shaw?”

  “I’ll tell her I need you to do some sewing.”

  “And I can’t start tonight.”

  Honoria’s frown was instantaneous. “Why not?”

  “It’s my time of the moon.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake. Very well. When? Tomorrow?”

  “Perhaps,” said Mary cautiously. This ruse would certainly be short lived, but the more time she could buy herself, the better.

  “Very well, then.” Honoria stood up to sweep from the room, but Mary stopped her with a slight gesture. “What is it?”

  “What is it I’m to find out for you?”

  Honoria hovered a moment before sitting down again. “What I tell you is in complete confidence. If you repeat this to anybody, not only will I deny this entire conversation but I’ll also destroy you. Do you understand?”

  Mary nodded. There was something admirable about the woman’s ruthlessness.

  “A few days ago, a relation of mine was murdered in uncertain circumstances. The gentleman of whom we speak witnessed the murder. It is claimed by his physician that he cannot recollect the details. Of course, that is untrue. False and malicious rumors are now circulating about the manner of my relation’s death. These must stop. Your task is to convince the gentleman of his duty to clear the record — or, at the very least, to learn what really happened.”

  Mary blinked. This was nothing short of a revelation: Honoria Dalrymple was not only a relation of Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth, but was so persuaded of his virtue that she was willing to prostitute herself to clear the young man’s name. Having failed in that endeavor, she hadn’t hesitated to blackmail a bystander into doing the work for her. Had Mary really just thought such ruthlessness admirable? Perhaps in its utter conviction. And why hadn’t the Agency come through with this information days ago? It was a matter of public record. She repressed a flash of resentment and focused on Honoria’s stony, elegant features. “And . . . if I can’t persuade the gentleman to tell me what happened?”

  Honoria bared her teeth in another predatory grimace that only just qualified as a smile. “Then you shall have to work harder.”

  One of the ridiculous things about London was that although it was almost always faster to walk to one’s destination, the streets were clogged with vast numbers of carriages, hansom cabs, wagons, omnibuses, and horses, all desperate to be somewhere, all illustrating the triumph of hope over experience. Despite the satisfaction she took in the walk from Buckingham Palace, Mary felt h
er confidence dip as she neared the Tower of London.

  Part of this, she knew, was by design: its approach was a bleak stone wall interrupted only by arrow loops that enhanced its forbidding aspect. All the same, she felt very small indeed as she presented herself at the gate.

  “Here to see whom?” The guard looked her up and down.

  “A new prisoner: Lang.” She was wearing her best hat and Sunday coat, and on leaving the palace had swiped an old silk umbrella that may or may not have been Mrs. Shaw’s. The overall effect was of prim respectability — a governess or a lady without much money, rather than a servant.

  Even so, something about her seemed to give the guard pause. “And who might you be to the prisoner?”

  “My name is Miss Lawrence, of the St. Andrew’s Church Ladies’ Committee. We heard of the prisoner’s plight and wish to be allowed to minister to him.”

  “Bit irregular, this,” grumbled the guard. “Usually it’s a delegation of ladies.”

  Mary leaned forward and lowered her tone. “I hope I may rely upon you not to repeat this, sir, but this Lang was rather an unpopular prisoner within our committee. There have been so many rumors about his offense, and with some of the ladies very proud of their distant connections with the best families . . .” She smiled, a weak apology that nevertheless seemed to go a long way.

  “Aye, he’s a troublemaker, that Lang,” agreed the guard, unlatching the gate. “And he’s none too polite, neither, so you want to watch yourself, miss. He ain’t above using strong language to a lady.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Mary. Now that she was inside, she found it difficult to tolerate the guard’s easy chatter. She wanted perfect silence as she picked her way through the vast, slushy courtyard; a last few moments of futile hope, aimed at the man who might be her father. Absurd. She didn’t even know what she hoped for.

  She turned her mind away from childish wistfulness and concentrated on her surroundings. The Tower of London, she’d always been told, was actually many buildings within a single set of fortifications, built by different kings over hundreds of years. This made sense only now, as she stood within its bounds, craning her neck up at the different towers. She would need a map to navigate between them all. But she would remember each step of her journey to this particular tower that loomed over her, weather blackened and Gothic.

  “Cradle Tower,” said the guard easily as they reached its entrance and he passed her into the care of another guard. “All the best traitors have been kept here.”

  “History repeats itself,” said the new guard in a portentous tone.

  The two men chuckled, and Mary wondered how much of the gossip about Lang they actually believed. Not that it mattered. She scarcely knew herself.

  The second guard was less inclined to conversation. After a cursory glance at the contents of her handbag, he led her up a narrow flight of stairs that smelled of mouse nests, circling higher and higher until they emerged on the top floor. They passed through a low, arched doorway into a dim antechamber. It smelled different here, of ancient meals, burnt tallow, and unwashed bodies.

  Mary felt a lurch of fear. Somehow, she’d expected the approach to be longer, more complicated; to have time to prepare herself. Yet perhaps a dozen paces before her was a stone wall, interrupted by a door made of iron bars. She seemed unable to convince herself that the prisoner was right there.

  “Visitor, Lang,” said the guard in a bored tone.

  Mary held her breath. The voice: would it be her father’s? Yet several seconds passed, and the only reply was a soft susurration — like tree branches moved by a moderate breeze. Was Lang shuffling his feet? Chafing something against the wall?

  “Lang!” barked the guard. He eyed Mary with suspicion. “He expecting you?”

  She shook her head, voice temporarily lost.

  The guard strode to the door and banged on the bars with his truncheon. “Get up, Chinaman. There’s a lady here to see you.”

  Still nothing.

  The jailer looked at Mary, eyebrows raised, as if to ask, what now?

  She cleared her throat. “Is he always like this with visitors?”

  The man snorted. “Ain’t had none. ’Less you mean the chaplain, and he ignores him. He ain’t violent, missy — don’t let them stories frighten you. He just sleeps all day, unless he’s got the shakes.”

  “The shakes?” Her voice echoed sharply off the stone walls.

  “Drug fiend. He were found in an opium den, weren’t he? And he ain’t had none for four days, now. Raving, he were, the first couple of days. A regular madman.”

  “And now it’s passed?”

  “Well, he couldn’t keep up that malarkey. Lord, it were tiring just to see.”

  “What about food or drink?”

  The guard shrugged. “Prisoners, they got their notions. Most of them try a hunger strike, sooner or later.”

  “But if he’s had nothing for four days, he’ll soon be dead. He’ll never make it to trial!” Mary fought to keep a sharp note of panic from her voice.

  “To my thinking, it saves a world of trouble. But we got our orders. He gets whatever muck we can force-feed, three times a day, ma’am. He ain’t starving.”

  Only in the most literal sense of the word, thought Mary. How long could a man subsist on a few spoonfuls of gruel forced down his throat? That shuffling, almost whistling sound had continued as she questioned the jailer, rising and then falling in cycles. “Will you open the door, please?”

  The man shrugged again. “Suit yourself. Though he ain’t like to talk to you. I ain’t heard him say a word, these last two days.” Still, he unlocked the iron door and stepped back, with an elaborate gesture to Mary. “Miss.” He palmed the half crown she offered him with a neat gesture and, with one more obsequious bow, took himself off to the far end of the antechamber, at the mouth of the stairwell.

  Mary closed her eyes for a long moment, summoning an image of her father: Lang Jin Hai. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been a handsome man in his thirties. Tall for a Chinese, with some resemblance to the prince consort — something her mother had been proud of. But that had been twelve or thirteen years ago, and she’d been a young child. Memory was an unreliable guide. At least it always seemed to be, for her.

  Enough. She opened her eyes and tried to see into the cell. It was windowless and thus dark; all daylight came from a narrow window in the antechamber, and it didn’t penetrate far. As Mary’s eyes adjusted, she began to see shapes, perceive depth. The cell was narrow and long, furnished only with a low cot pushed against one wall. There was nothing else in the room: no chair, no table, no washstand or water jug — though judging from the fetid smell, there was a chamber pot beneath the bed that hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned in recent memory.

  And finally, the thing she most and least wanted to see: a small figure, crumpled on the bed, shaking beneath a thin, woolen blanket. Mary’s stomach turned over. So that was the cause of the shuffling sound: a sick man shivering to death in the presence of a guard and a visitor. She wanted to charge from the cell, screaming for blankets and hot-water bottles and bowls of steaming broth. She stopped herself, with difficulty. This man had heard enough screaming and been the subject of orders too many times already.

  She cleared her throat, not because it was necessary but to give him some warning. “Mr. Lang?”

  Still no response, but she didn’t expect one.

  “My name is Mary Lawrence. I may be able to assist you.” Lang remained mute, but Mary thought his shivering lessened somewhat, as though he were concentrating on her words. “I have no connection either to the police or to the family of the dead man. But I am interested in the facts of what happened that night.”

  There was a slight pause in the shivering, as though it were being suppressed by force of will. Very slowly, the lump under the blanket uncurled a little. And although the shaking resumed, Lang’s body continued to unfurl until, very slowly, a tousled head poked, turtle-like, from one
end of the blanket. The skull was capped by a shock of greasy, thinning yellowy-gray hair. The skin was almost the same color, a sallow map of a sad country, with dark, bruised craters below the eyes. And the eyes themselves — Mary repressed a shudder. They were defeat made human, a world of pain entire.

  They were also her eyes.

  Her lungs seized. Her heart suddenly hammered against throat. Her mouth went dry. It was out of the question. This old man, this drug-addicted, incarcerated old sailor — her father? She’d prepared herself for the possibility but now that it confronted her, found it impossible to believe.

  And yet there were the eyes. They weren’t hers in color; hers had always been a changeable hazel. But their shape was the same. And now they blinked at her, slowly, atop that stinking prison blanket. Blinked to clear the film that covered his eyeballs, although the weight of the eyelids seemed more than he could bear. He looked decades older than forty. He looked like death itself.

  “Your name?” The voice was that of an elderly invalid — raspy, faint. He seemed to be searching her face, looking for something to latch on to.

  Mary looked him square in the eyes. “Are you Lang Jin Hai, formerly of Limehouse?”

  And then the unthinkable happened: he closed his eyes, turned his head away, and said, “No.”

  She frowned. “No to what?”

  “Not of Limehouse.”

  He looked nothing like the father she remembered, but she couldn’t be wrong about something this important. The eyes — the name — the fact that he’d asked her name . . . “If not Limehouse, where?”

  No reply. Lang continued to shiver, to curl back into a ball, facing firmly away from her.

  Mary waited a minute. Then two. Then three. Finally, she said, “I don’t believe you. You are Lang Jin Hai, formerly of Limehouse. You were married to Maire Quinn, a seamstress.”

  No reply, but that near stillness again — a cessation of shaking that showed she’d struck deep.

  “You had a daughter named Mary. She would be nineteen or twenty years old now.”

  He remained almost motionless.