Rivals in the City (23 page)

There was no noise from below, but the smell of smoke, onions and meat announced that she’d found the kitchens. It was quiet, rather to her surprise: even the washing-up was finished, which meant that the museum staff dined early. Silence meant that Mrs Price and Welland were above, with the other domestics. She turned away from the staircases, towards the central building. There would presumably be a set of connecting doors, sturdily locked, that led into the museum proper. She groped her way left, wishing it was safe enough to light a candle. It would be instructive to see, not merely feel, the layout of the building. However, the corridor made a ninety-degree turn and ended in a locked single door. It was much simpler than she’d envisioned, and in keeping with the neoclassical severity of the new building.

She patted her palms against the door. It was covered in baize, to muffle noise from the servants out in the great public space of the museum. It was secured only with bolts at top and bottom, and a heavy brass lock in the middle. It occurred to her that there might be a guard on the other side of the door, so she put her eye to the keyhole. There was nothing conclusive: no perceptible source of light, for example, to indicate a human presence.

She didn’t like it. The very serious disadvantage of this elegant floor plan was that it provided absolutely nowhere to go if her explorations were interrupted: no dog-leg corner, no antechamber, not even a thick drapery behind which she could hide and hope. She turned carefully back towards the stairwell and descended halfway to the kitchens. Here was a promising spot from which to listen.

She had been waiting for only a few minutes when she heard footfall: one – no, two – pairs of footsteps. They were descending from the first floor, accompanied by the murmur of female voices.

“I heard one of them say it’s dysentery,” said a familiar voice. “It’s hardly surprising, living in a filthy city such as this, in such an unhealthy climate.”

“I do hope you’ve not caught it, Mamma.”

“Don’t worry about me, child. I’ve the constitution of the proverbial ox.”

“Most unladylike.” There was a smile in Angelica’s voice that made Mary cringe.

“Indeed. In any case, they’re settled now with their sugared barley water, and they ought to keep to their beds tonight.”

A pause. “And so we begin?”

“We begin.”

Only silence.

“Unless, of course, you have changed your mind. If that is the case, speak now, Angelica. For once we begin, we must stand together.”

A deep breath. “Mamma, you promised that nobody would be hurt, no blood shed.”

“I did.”

“Very well,” said Angelica. Her voice shook, but only a little. “I am with you, Mamma.”

“Thorold and Daughter?”

“Thorold and Daughter.”

Pact made, they lapsed into silence, making it easier for Mary to track their steps. Accompanied by a shimmering haze of lamplight, they walked down the long corridor that seemed to lead towards the main hall of the museum. There was a pause as they shot the bolts, and then the quiet scratch of a key inserted, the faint clicks of tumblers rotating. The door bumped softly as it closed once more, sealing Mary in darkness. She listened again. It was entirely quiet upstairs. Disconcertingly so, for a building supposedly full of domestic servants. After seeing Welland and Mrs Price at the front gates, Mary thought she understood why.

She shed her cloak, making it into a neat bundle and pushing her reticule into its folds. She left these on the step and twisted the tip of her umbrella. It had been specially adapted for the Agency’s purposes and had a small but extremely effective blade concealed within the shaft. Her fingertips tingled, as did her cheeks. She felt light and pared down, ready for adventure, as she glided silently through the corridor. She paused before the baize-covered door, listening. Nothing – although the fabric would damp any noise from the other side, too. Blind entrances were always a risk: exposing oneself, moving into an unfamiliar space with no idea of who or what awaited. She rotated the knife in her palm and took a deep breath. There was nothing to do but keep going.

Moving swiftly, Mary opened the door and walked into the King’s Library. She also walked directly into the expectant presence of Maria Thorold. “Close that door, please,” Mrs Thorold said, speaking over Mary’s left shoulder.

Mary knew better than to turn her head. Besides, she couldn’t tear her gaze from the neat black revolver pointed straight at her chest. It was her first time as the target of such a device, and what frightened her most was its power to send her mind whirling, fracturing her thoughts like the segments of a kaleidoscope. Mary snatched at them: fragments about James, Anne Treleaven and the Agency, Scotland Yard. But she could control none of them, pursue nothing to its rational conclusion. She felt pure panic, a dangerous pulse of undisciplined energy, and all she could do was stare at the gun.

“Mamma,” said Angelica, and her voice was full of fear. “You gave your word.”

“Hush,” said her mother, visibly irritated. “I know what I said.” She stared at Mary with open dislike. “I underestimated you, the first time. You and that silly schoolma’am. I shan’t make that mistake again.”

Mary swallowed, but her mouth was still too dry to permit speech. Just as well. She had nothing clever to say. Very slowly, she tucked her right hand into the fold of her skirts, hoping to conceal her blade.

Mrs Thorold only sighed. “Angelica, take that stupid toy from Miss Quinn.”

With trembling fingers, Angelica obeyed. She offered Mary’s knife to her mother, holding it with the extreme tips of her fingers.

Mrs Thorold didn’t even glance at it. “Get rid of it, dear girl. We don’t need brass when we’ve got gold.” She waved the revolver under Mary’s nose. “You’ve been quite the little friend to Angelica, haven’t you? Comforting the grieving daughter, picking her brains about her mother’s whereabouts, sneaking about town, keeping an eye on her… How many of you are there? The Treleaven woman, of course. Any others?”

“You’d know,” said Mary, her voice shaking. “What about the one you stabbed in the back?”

Angelica gasped.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Mrs Thorold, with a delighted sneer. “Safest to assume it’s every hag in that damned school, though. I’m tickled to learn that Scotland Yard is so exceedingly radical in its ideas. Women police constables! How thrillingly modern.”

Suddenly, one of the tiny shards of the kaleidoscope clicked into place. “You’re terribly confident,” said Mary, “considering we’re presently surrounded by policemen. There’s a detachment of constables from Scotland Yard assigned to the museum; the old Military Guard; even the Fire Brigade. They all live on the premises, or very near by. Are you quite sure you’ve chosen the right place to burgle, Mrs Thorold?”

Mrs Thorold smiled. “And how do you intend summoning all these fearsome bogeymen, Miss Quinn? You could scream, of course, but I’m terribly sensitive to sudden noises. Why, standing here with my finger on the trigger of this little revolver, anything at all might happen.”

“Let us suppose I am not afraid. I scream. You shoot me – breaking, incidentally, the promise you so solemnly made to your daughter not ten minutes ago. Let us further suppose that such a betrayal does not bother you, and also that I die. The noise from the shot will awaken the entire building. The place will be swarming with police and soldiers in less than a minute. How far do you think you can run, in that time?”

“Such courage in the face of danger!” exclaimed Mrs Thorold. “Shall we test your hypothesis, Miss Quinn? Go on: scream.”

Mary stared at her, astounded. Had Mrs Thorold in fact gone mad? Why on earth was she so willing to risk discovery, pursuit, an additional death on her hands?

The seconds ticked on, and Mrs Thorold grinned, exposing a set of excellent teeth. “Where is your spirit of scientific enquiry, Miss Quinn? Remember: nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

There was something nagging at her … evidence towards a theory for Mrs Thorold’s obscene confidence that she would not be caught. Something about the staff … in her memory, she caught an echo of the gatekeeper’s helpless retching, the dark gleam of vomit on cobblestones: food poisoning or some other digestive upset, they’d all assumed. She also heard an echo of Angelica’s voice saying dysentery, and of Mrs Thorold delivering sugared barley water to the invalids.

Mary’s eyes widened as she snatched the possibility and held it tight, examining it with incredulity. Could Mrs Thorold have engineered a museum-wide wave of illness? It had to be something sudden, which gave no time to send for a physician or sound an alert. Something that would affect an entire group of people who shared a source of food and drink, or who breathed the same air. It was straightforward enough to poison a hundred people sitting down to the same banquet, thought Mary, but what of many separate households, which was effectively the case within the museum? There would be different dining-tables and menus with which to contend, and surely no one servant was involved with all those varied meal preparations. Besides which, that accounted only for the museum staff. The police, the Military Guard, the Fire Brigade … they would surely have separate living and dining arrangements. And dysentery was a closed mystery, spreading rapidly through an entire neighbourhood while leaving the next street untouched; one couldn’t expect to harness a plague, or to pass untouched by it oneself. What did that leave as a possibility?

“I confess myself disappointed, Miss Quinn,” drawled Mrs Thorold, still smirking. “I thought you braver than this, more self-sacrificial.” She lowered the gun. “Come, then, I promise not to shoot. For the time being, in any case. Will you now do me the honour of creating a ruckus?”

Mary swallowed, certain now of the situation. “How did you do it?” she demanded. “How did you disable so many people?”

Mrs Thorold twirled her revolver and trilled a snatch of song, a cheeky music-hall favourite from a couple of years ago. The choice of tune rather surprised Mary, although perhaps that was part of the point. The main idea, however, was soon exceedingly clear: although Mrs Thorold was close to tone-deaf, her hard contralto voice rang out freely, up and down the considerable length of the King’s Library. On finishing, all three women listened in silence for a response: footsteps, voices, anything at all.

Mary pivoted so she could see both women. “Are they still alive?” Her voice echoed harmlessly into the resounding silence. “Or have you already broken your promise to Angelica on a scale she could never have anticipated?”

Angelica’s face blanched at the suggestion, and her eyes darted to her mother. She opened her lips as though to speak, but no sound emerged.

“And where are the police and Military Guard?” demanded Mary. “Why was there only one gatekeeper? Why is Mr Entwistle on an urgent errand in the City?”

Mrs Thorold waved her hand dismissively. “I am not here to answer your questions, Miss Quinn. Besides which, they bore me.” She levelled the gun at Mary once more. “Now that we’ve established a sound reason for your perfect obedience, let’s get on with it. Walk.”

Faced with the gun’s muzzle, Mary’s pulse surged once again. She was relieved, however, to note that she was not quite so panicked as she had been a few minutes ago. She asked, in a voice that shook only slightly, “Angelica? Are you satisfied with such an answer?”

Angelica licked her lips. “Mamma. Are they alive?”

“Do you think I would break my word to you?”

“That is not an answer.” Angelica’s voice was hoarse.

Mrs Thorold sighed. She said with exaggerated patience, as though to an irrationally anxious child, “Yes, they are alive.” She paused. “Do you believe me, or do you require ocular proof?”

“Forgive me, Mamma. I ought to have had more confidence in you.”

Mrs Thorold dealt Mary a triumphant look but said only, “Then let us have no more second-guessing.” She prodded Mary with the gun. “Walk.”

They thus embarked on a nightmare tour of the museum, a party of three on a private viewing. Their only light source was Mrs Thorold’s paraffin lantern, which she gave to Angelica to light the way. This was in direct contravention of museum rules: artificial illumination of any sort – candles, oil lamps, the new gas lighting – was strictly forbidden, for fear of fire. As they progressed through the building, the lamp’s yellow glare flickered and danced, creating monstrous shapes in the nearest shadows and transforming art objects: a marble sculpture became a flash of fractured bone; a bronze vessel seemed to gleam with unearthly light.

Mary strained her ears, listening for approaching footsteps. Close to two hours had passed since she had sent her shadow-agent to summon help. Why had nobody yet arrived? What could have gone wrong?

They wandered past the natural history exhibits, bypassed Lord Elgin’s infamous marbles. Mary suddenly thought of the spectacular Indian amulet she and Angelica had admired here just a few days ago. There was no inviolable chain of reasoning, but the object simply fit. It was extraordinarily valuable. Small, thus easy to carry and conceal. Mrs Thorold might even have seen Angelica admiring it at some point. But the most compelling reason was Mrs Thorold’s own personal history with items such as this: Indian treasures raided and illegally traded by her dead husband. Taking this amulet represented both a return to form and a journey back in time. It also gave Mrs Thorold the last word in the long power struggle of her marriage.

Mary slowed her pace imperceptibly, trying to create a little more time in which to think. She was outnumbered, at the moment. Even if she thought she could best Mrs Thorold in a physical struggle – an unlikely proposition, so long as the woman kept the gun trained upon her – Angelica was still apt to side with her mother. Mary’s only small chance, going into this room, was Angelica’s sentimental connection to her father. If she could somehow touch that raw nerve, Angelica might begin to yield.

They were in the right part of the museum now, moving swiftly through centuries and across continents. As they approached the Far Eastern exhibits (the Orient, the Middle East, the Asian subcontinent, even Turkey, were all jammed together into one category), Mary felt Angelica tense, evidently recalling the amulet and their conversation on that day. Good. Let her remember.