A Spy in the House (19 page)

“Are you mad? What secret meeting?” Her face was flushed and she looked defensive. Guilty, even.

“I’m not a fool!” he roared. “It’s perfectly clear that you were up to something in there. How else could you have stayed so long, asking for work?”

“I did what we agreed! If you’ll recall, it was your plan!”

“I must have played right into your hands. It was purely by good fortune that I saw him arrive at the Lascars’ refuge. It was a clever move, getting me to suggest the place! It’s a pity you weren’t as careful about packing me off after I’d created that useful diversion.
I saw him,
Mary!”

“You saw him arrive?” Now she seemed genuinely perplexed. “What on earth are you raving about?”

He curled his lip. “More denial? I thought you cleverer than that, Miss Quinn.”

“Oh, I could just scream. For the last time,
Mr. Easton,
I have no idea who you’re talking about. You suggested we explore the Lascars’ refuge. You made the plan and bought those stinking rags. I followed the plan. And now you’re accusing me of meeting somebody who is clearly a figment of your imagination!”

“Michael Gray is a figment of my imagination? Tell that to your precious employer.”

“Michael Gray?” She really was outraged now. “At the refuge? What utter bosh!”

“I suppose it’ll turn out you’re all in it together, the whole damned family, for some arcane reason I haven’t yet worked out.”

“You’re completely obsessed with the man. Actually, no: you’re obsessed with the idea of my being in league with Gray.”

Oh, what he wouldn’t give to shake the woman. Being a gentleman was a distinct disadvantage at moments like this. “So you deny that you met Gray at the Lascars’ refuge?”

“Of course I deny it, you blockhead!” she howled. “How could I have met him? He wasn’t there!”

“‘Blockhead’?” James felt his control disintegrate. “You devious little —”

“Stop the carriage! I’m getting down!”

“Gladly!” he snapped, thumping the roof energetically. He didn’t care where they were; he’d gladly drop her into the Thames itself.

Mary flung open the door as the carriage slowed, and he saw that they were indeed beside the river, which shimmered like oily tar in the midday light. Its odor of rotting waste invaded the carriage, making them gag violently.

“Shut the door,” choked out James as soon as he could speak.

Mary looked green but prepared to climb down from the carriage. He caught her by the elbow and pulled her back inside. “Stay.”

She seemed too queasy to argue and slammed the door smartly as the carriage accelerated westward. James could only imagine how Barker was getting on, out in the open air. There was a long silence as they both battled nausea, handkerchiefs clasped over their noses.

After several minutes, Mary took an experimental breath. “It’s not so bad now.”

“Good.” Yet when he put away his handkerchief, he was assaulted anew by the thick stench. He re-covered his nose again and attempted to breathe normally.

Mary frowned. “Are you going to be sick?”

“No.” His saliva tasted intensely salty.

“You look chalky.”

“I’m
fine,
” he said with a scowl. Why had she recovered, while he was still carrying on like a delicate maiden aunt? The last thing he wanted was to vomit in front of her.

After a pause, she cautiously offered him her handkerchief. He took it reluctantly. Her lovely lemon scent helped more than he’d care to admit.

“How do you do it?” he mumbled through layers of linen.

“Do what?”

“Live at Cheyne Walk. All the Thorolds.”

Mary considered. “Well, Miss Thorold doesn’t care for it. Mr. Thorold says the river made his fortune, so he’s loyal to it. And Mrs. Thorold seems unaffected by the stench.”

“The newspapers are calling this the Great Stink, you know.”

“The Thames never smells good.”

“But it’s never smelled this bad,” he countered. “Even the ferrymen have stopped working.”

It was true: the usual fleet of small river taxis was nowhere to be seen. “Is it true what they say about the cause of the stink?”

“Human refuse, dead animals, rotting vegetation, waste from tanneries and chemical works, and God knows what.” James had seen all these things — and more — while working on the tunnel excavations.

“But the Thames has been full of that for ages. Decades.”

“It’s been getting worse,” he said. “More people create more refuse. And it’s not just dead cats and other rubbish in there now: all the toilets in London flush directly into the river.”

Mary shuddered. “So the heat isn’t causing the stink; it’s merely making the normal stench worse.”

James nodded. “We’ll have to find a solution soon. London’s growing so quickly.”

“But how can we clean the river? And where will all the refuse go?”

“The simplest solution is to send it elsewhere — build underground pipes to take it away — and stop allowing the factories to dump their waste into the river.”

“Underground pipes? I suppose that’s where you and your brother come in.”

He lowered the handkerchiefs cautiously. “Or Brunel. Or the dozens of other engineers who will want to do the work.”

She looked at him for a moment. “Aren’t you very young for an engineer?”

Why did people always remark on that? They either thought him too young to do his job or too mature for his age. “I began my apprenticeship when I was fifteen. I’m nineteen now.” And speaking of age . . . he frowned at her critically in the gloom. “Aren’t you very young for a lady’s companion?”

“I’m twenty.” She changed the subject abruptly. “Where are we? I suppose it’s safe to get down now.”

He held out a hand to stop her. Their argument seemed childish after the interruption, but he had to know. “Mary, he
was
there.”

“Gray? When?”

“While you were inside, Gray rode up. He entered by the front door. You remained inside for another quarter of an hour.”

She frowned. “He
rode
? That bay mare that was tethered outside?”

“Yes!”

“But why didn’t you say so?”

“We’re not going to fight again, are we?” He grinned.

One of her rare, full smiles transformed her face. “It didn’t actually come to fisticuffs.”

“For which my nose is grateful.”

“Your bruise is healing quickly, I see.”

“Yes. And your hand?”

“Much better, thank you.”

The carriage drew to a halt. Barker swung the door open noiselessly and unfolded the steps. “Lawrence Street, Miss Quinn.”

She hesitated a moment, then said, “I’ll keep you informed.”

“Likewise.”

After dinner each evening, the ladies retreated to the drawing room while Thorold and Gray drank port and ate Stilton in the dining room. Mrs. Thorold tended to nap in her armchair while Angelica played the pianoforte. This evening, however, Angelica couldn’t settle. She rustled through sheet music, tossed it aside, and settled down to mope by the windows. She’d been like this all day.

“I think I’ll get my sewing basket,” Mary finally said. “May I fetch you anything?”

Angelica didn’t even turn her head.

Mary gently closed the drawing-room door behind her. It was quiet on the landing. By now, the servants were in their own hall having their evening meal. Downstairs, the dining-room doors stood open. Not normal practice, but given the stuffy weather, not a bad idea. Yellowish gaslight spilled into the hall, along with low, intense voices.

“With all respect, sir, you ought to reconsider the Brighton scheme.”

“I’ve already told you. It’s not possible.”

Mary paused, one hand on the balustrade. This was even better luck than she’d hoped.

“I realize the ladies prefer to stay in London, but under the circumstances —”

“You heard that family conversation, Gray. Mrs. Thorold made herself very clear. It is not a question of preference but medical necessity.”

“There is a medical case for getting her out of the city, sir. Could she not consult other physicians in Brighton?”

A pause. Then, “Don’t interfere in matters you don’t understand.”

“Sir, I —”

“Enough!” The sudden anger in Thorold’s voice was startling. “I have informed you of my decision; it is not reversible.”

Gray’s voice was hard now. “I went to George Villas today, sir.”

Another pause. “You what?”

“George Villas, Limehouse. Site of the Imperial Baptist East London Refuge for Destitute Asiatic Sailors. Sir.”

“Why the devil should you go there? It’s not one of your responsibilities.”

Michael was speaking now with heavy emphasis. “I was following up some irregularities in last quarter’s accounting.” He paused for effect, but Thorold made no attempt to speak. “I wondered, sir, why the company was paying for the . . .”

A servant’s footsteps in the corridor made both men pause. Then Thorold said coldly, “As I said, that is outside your purview, Gray. If you want to keep your job, you’ll mind your own damn business.”

Silence.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mary paused a moment longer, but the conversation was clearly over. Even so, it was a piece of luck. She hurried upstairs to her bedroom and turned the key in the lock. She scrabbled around for a minute, trying to find her candle, when suddenly a gravelly voice said, “I’ve a rushlight in my pocket, miss.”

Mary stifled a scream. When she could speak again, shock made her severe. “Cassandra Day! What on earth are you doing in my bedroom?” Her fingers closed round the box of lucifers. In the sudden flare of the match, she saw Cass crouched on the floor by the washstand, her knees drawn up under her chin. Judging from the way the girl blinked and squinted, she had been sitting in the dark for some time. Mary took her time lighting a second candle.

“Now. What’s all this about?” she asked crisply.

“Don’t be cross, Miss Quinn: it’s important.”

“What’s important?”

Cass stood awkwardly, twisting her hands in her apron. “Something I heard today. I didn’t know how else to tell you.”

“Won’t you be missed from the kitchen?”

“I’ve washed up the pots, miss. Cook gave me leave to mend my aprons.”

From the look of the specimen she was wearing, she needed the time. Mary nodded. “All right, then. Sit down. I’ll work on your hands while you tell me what you heard.”

Even in the dim light, she could see Cass flush with satisfaction. She sat gingerly in the cane chair, careful not to let her skirts touch the clean bedding.

“Now.” Mary opened the small jar of salve. “What’s this news?” Cass squared her narrow shoulders and took a deep breath. “Early this morning, I was polishing the silver in the butler’s pantry.”

Mary frowned. “That’s a footman’s job.” Being outside the scullery — never mind handling the heavy, ugly, and very expensive family silverware — was a significant breach of domestic discipline. If caught, Cass would have been dismissed on the spot.

“Yes, miss. It’s ’cause Cook’s sweet on William. She told me to do it while she made him a hot breakfast.”

“Hm. All right, then. You were polishing the silver. What time was that?”

“The clock struck seven a little after I began, and just as I was finishing, Mr. Gray came down to the breakfast room. The connecting door was ajar, but I didn’t want him to see me and ask what I was doing there, so I hid behind the door.” She blinked rapidly as Mary smoothed salve into a raw cuticle, but she didn’t flinch. “The newspapers were already on the table, but instead of reading them, he began pacing up and down the room. I didn’t think much of it; I only wanted to finish the polishing and get back to the scullery. It wasn’t until I heard Mr. Gray say, quite loudly, ‘What on earth are you playing at?’ that I began to pay attention. He said it to Miss Thorold, who told him to be quiet.”

Mary’s eyebrows shot up. “Was Mr. Thorold in the room?”

“No, miss. It was still before eight, you see, and he normally comes down at a quarter past eight.”

“Go on, please.”

“I’ve never seen Miss Thorold before luncheon, so I was very surprised; I thought perhaps I was mistaken, but I could see a little slice of the room through the side of the door — you know, where the hinges are — and I could see her. She was still in her dressing gown, and her hair was all down. She’s very pretty, isn’t she, miss?”

Mary nodded. “Yes.”

“Anyway, Miss Thorold and Mr. Gray began talking about something. He called her Anj and she called him Michael. It wasn’t the usual sort of family conversation: more businesslike than friendly.” Her brow creased. “I couldn’t hear what they were saying. They were in the farthest corner of the room, near the windows, and muttering with their heads together. But he finally said, ‘I’ll arrange it as quickly as possible.’ And she said, ‘The sooner the better.’ Then they muttered some more.”

Mary gave Cass’s hands a final light rub and corked the salve. Although she was glad for confirmation of the connection between Michael and Angelica, she couldn’t see why Cass had chosen to speak to her about this. But the girl’s next words got her full attention.

“Then Miss Thorold said, ‘What of Miss Quinn?’ Mr. Gray didn’t seem to know what to say, but he finally said, ‘She’s no threat; you know that.’ They were both quiet for a minute or two, and then he said, ‘If it comes to that, what about George and James Easton?’ And Miss Thorold sniffed and said, ‘Let them be for a while.’”

Mary glanced instinctively at the door. Naturally, there was no sound or movement in the corridor outside. “Then what happened?”

Cass shook her head unhappily. “Nothing, miss. Just after that, there was a noise in the hall and Miss Thorold left the room. I heard her slippers, but I don’t know where she went. And a few minutes later, Mr. Thorold came into the room, and you did, too.”

Mary digested the new information for a minute before something else occurred to her. “Were you trapped behind the door in the butler’s pantry for the whole breakfast time? After I came down, too?”

Cass looked impish. “I didn’t mind; it was a nice rest, miss.”

Downstairs, the grandfather clock struck ten, its tones penetrating the closed door in a muffled way. “Speaking of rest, you ought to go to bed.”