A Spy in the House (31 page)

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 beside 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’ refuge, 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.

“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.