Traitor and the Tunnel (15 page)

She walked back towards the Palace, sprinkling the paper fragments of her father’s rejection into the shal ow lake. They floated at first, then slowly became sodden and sank beneath its murky surface.

And that, too, was entirely apt.

Fifteen

The same day, 11.15 p.m.

The service entrance to Buckingham Palace Although the usual needs of the royal family consumed the rest of her working day, Mary found time to scribble and post a short note she’d composed while serving afternoon tea. She wanted it to be brief, but also to encompass cool indifference, taunting ambiguity and a degree of cal ousness, al encompassed by a businesslike tone. After much thought, she wrote: Dear James,

I hope this note is not entirely offensive to you after our last conversation, parts of which I sincerely regret. Recently, I came upon some information about the Palace sewers that may interest you in your professional capacity. Are you free to meet this evening? I shall be unengaged at any time after eleven o’clock.

Yrs sincerely,

Mary

His response, in a note delivered early that evening by the penny post beneath Mrs Shaw’s raised eyebrows, was almost too perfect: 11.30 by the works entrance.

J

She was now loitering in the chil y courtyard, watching for Octavius Jones. Although she knew what to expect, she stil broke into a broad grin at the sight of a tal , awkward figure in a maid’s uniform, clomping through the courtyard with a furtive expression on his face.

At the sight of her, his face grew even longer.

“How do you walk around al day wearing so many skirts?” he whined. “The weight is impossible!”

“Good evening, Miss Jones,” she said in her sweetest tones. “You look perfectly ridiculous.”

“Tel me something I don’t know,” snapped Jones.

“And don’t cal me Miss Jones.”

“How about ‘Tavvy’?”

He scowled more deeply. “Just ‘Jones’ wil do.”

Mary was enjoying herself even more than she’d imagined. “You certainly don’t look like a gentleman about to consummate his love.”

Jones turned on her. “Keep your voice down!” He looked genuinely scandalized.

“You’re on my territory, Tavvy; you’l do as I say, if you don’t want to be caught.”

He scowled. “This is absurd. I’m going.”

Mary al owed him three steps’ retreat before asking, “What message shal I give Amy?”

Jones froze. Waited. Turned round so slowly she could almost hear his joints crack with reluctance.

The hatred and shame in his expression ought to have given her pause, but instead fil ed her with satisfaction. “Never mind,” he said, his voice hoarse with contained fury. “Lead the way.”

Mary conducted him through the servants’

entrance, past the snoring footman and to the service stairs. She was careful not to point out potential hiding-spots or teach him which steps squeaked at the centre, but she knew him to be a keen observer. It had not escaped her attention that she might be leading Her Majesty’s chief burglar into the heart of the Palace. And yet, the thief had been careful and choosy thus far – much too discreet to be caught. Without some sort of encouragement, her assignment might end without her having uncovered a thing.

As they reached the first-floor landing, she heard a quick, mincing step on the stairs above. She touched Jones’s elbow and gestured. He moved fast

– no protests here. A moment later, they were standing very close together round a corner, watching Mrs Shaw make her dignified way down to the kitchens. They waited for a ful minute after she’d passed. Then, stepping away from Jones, Mary said, “Let’s go.”

“Wait.” His hand closed round her upper arm in a hard grip, reminding her that, costume aside, there was nothing feminine about Jones. “Why are you doing this?”

“As a favour to Amy.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“That’s fine,” she said, quel ing her impatience.

“You needn’t.”

He stared at her for a long moment, eyes narrowed.

It was an unpleasant shock to realize that Jones was, in his own way, attractive. Neither handsome nor pleasant, but with a sort of diabolical charm that went wel beyond the surface – even when that surface included a bonnet.

“I could have had you sacked just then. When the housekeeper passed by.”

So he’d not missed the enormous bunch of keys tied to Mrs Shaw’s waist. “But you didn’t.”

“Not in your interests.”

“Nor in yours.”

“What I stil can’t work out is, what is your interest here?”

She smiled and set off up the stairs again, so he was forced to fol ow. “I’ve already told you.”

“You don’t expect me to believe you’re stil researching that book!”

She turned. “You expect me to believe you’re courting Amy Tranter.”

He couldn’t quite meet her gaze. “Yes. Wel . She enjoys the attention.” They ascended another flight of stairs in silence before he said, “You’re much too clever not to understand that I could be of very material assistance to you.”

“I do understand that, Jones. You were rather helpful during that excitement at the clock tower –

right up to the point when you broke your word.”

“You’re rather touchy about that little slip.”

“Because it wasn’t merely a little slip.” She was relieved when they reached the attic landing. “Here we are. Third door on your left. Amy’s expecting you.”

He made no move to continue. Instead, he touched her again, cupping his palms behind her elbows in a startlingly intimate gesture. “Mary. We could do great things together.”

She forced herself to meet his gaze. Tried not to blush. “I very much doubt our ideas of greatness would coincide.” She plucked his hands from her person and made a show of dusting off her sleeves.

“And now, I believe you’ve an appointment to keep.”

What James cal ed the “works entrance” was simply a manhole in a little-used side street a quarter-mile from the Palace – hardly what one would expect for a royal building project. Yet it was exactly right for a job shrouded in such secrecy. Mary would have thought herself in the wrong place but for the sight of James’s carriage, embarrassingly familiar to her from partnerships past. It stood perhaps ten yards from the manhole cover.

As Mary approached, the man hunched atop it swung his face towards her. Her cheeks flamed. The last time she’d seen James’s coachman, Barker, she’d been at a distinct disadvantage – sprawled on the belfry floor of St Stephen’s clock tower, dressed in boys’ rags, kissing James. Not that she regretted the last. But if she had any sense remaining, it’d not happen again.

“Evening,” she acknowledged Barker.

He nodded very slightly. His features remained perfectly stil , but seemed to frost over a degree with recognition.

The carriage door swung open and James hopped out, folding down the steps as an afterthought. He looked at her for a moment, opened his mouth, then closed it again. Final y, he said,

“You’re late.”

“I can’t just come and go as I choose,” she explained with demure patience. “I have to wait until everybody else is settled for the night before I can slip out. And good evening, by the way.”

“Oh – good evening.”

She placed one hand on the carriage steps. “I don’t want to waste your time. Shal we begin?”

He blinked. “The carriage?”

“It’l be warmer and more comfortable than talking in the drizzle,” she explained, hiding a smile. “What did you think I meant?”

His blush was visible even in the foggy night. “Er –

let me help you up.”

Once inside, they sat facing each other on the benches, awkward as innocents on their honeymoon night. James was, at least.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” said Mary. “I wasn’t sure you would read my letter, after our last meeting.”

A smal frown appeared between his eyebrows.

“We’ve had tiffs in the past and always managed to sort things out.”

She smiled. “True. But I don’t want to talk about us, whatever that might mean; I want to talk about sewers.”

It was clear he’d not been expecting that, even after her note. But after a moment, he raised one eyebrow. “You want information.”

“And to share it.”

“You’re assuming I want to know,” he said in a bored tone.

“True.” She paused. “I thought it a safe assumption, since somebody’s been using a tunnel beneath the Palace that connects with your sewers.”

He came alive at that, al pretence at relaxation gone. “How do you even know where I’m working?”

“Last night, I was in that strange little room off the sewers and I saw your ‘keep out’ sign.”

“The sign says ‘keep out’ for a reason, you know: that entire section’s structural y unsound. What the devil were you thinking, mucking about down there?”

“I fol owed someone. And I wasn’t there long.”

Mary waited for him to scold her. Snap at her carelessness. Grab her shoulders. Al the things that would signal she and James were back once more in their strange, compulsive to-and-fro.

Instead, he frowned. Leaned back. Folded his arms across his chest. “You know, Mary, I’ve been thinking about something.” He considered her through narrowed eyes, studying her features as though they were new to him. “Everywhere you go, trouble fol ows. That business with the Thorolds in Chelsea. Those thefts at the building site of St Stephen’s Tower. And now this.”

Mary unclenched her fists. Tried to breathe evenly.

“What are you saying?” She was a complacent fool who should have seen this coming long ago: James was too intel igent to believe her journalistic ruse for long.

“Mary.” His voice was careful, neutral. “I think there’s something you need to tel me.”

She cleared her throat. Tried to speak. Found her voice on the third try. “You’re right.” She struggled for a ful minute to find the words to begin. “When…?”

James’s gaze was merciless in its intensity. “I completely believed you last year, when we met on the building site. I think I even believed you on Sunday, when you first told me about your new project at the Palace. But this new coincidence…”

Mary nodded. Her stomach churned. So this was al her own, stupid, arrogant fault.

Another minute, and yet another, elapsed. James tilted his head, the faintest of smiles on his lips.

“Don’t look so stricken, Mary. I doubt guilty conscience is permitted in private detectives.”

She thought she’d been embarrassed before. But now, a new surge of blood heated her face; she could feel even her forehead going hot. “Truly,” she said, cringing at the inadequacy of language, “I never wanted to lie to you.”

“Never?”

“Not when we met again, after you came back from India.”

“But you didn’t think you could trust me yet.” His voice was careful, probing – he might have been a physician investigating the pain in her side.

“I did,” she said desperately. “I knew I could. But it wasn’t – I had – I simply wasn’t in a position to tel you everything. And I thought it better to say nothing, rather than tel you a smal portion of the improbable truth.” Such limping, inadequate honesty. Yet it was the closest she could come to disclosure without openly implicating the Agency.

James’s expression did not change. “When might you have told me? The next time our paths col ided?”

She tried not to squirm. “It’s preposterous, isn’t it?

Three coincidental meetings – it beggars belief.”

“I’d never believe it in a novel.”

“Nor I.”

“But here we are.”

“I don’t know when I’d have told you. I’d been hoping not to run into you again.” She saw the flash of hurt in his eyes, control ed though his features were. “Not like this, I mean,” she added. But the qualification was too feeble, too late.

“Is there anything else I’m permitted to know?” he asked, in a crisp tone.

She gestured uselessly. “I watch people. Ask questions. Try to learn things others would prefer to keep hidden. Yes. It’s a filthy sort of living. Entirely apt, I suppose, for a convicted thief.” James opened his mouth to reply, but she’d not give him the chance to hurt her like that again. “And now I’m here offering to exchange information. I can’t imagine you’d want to, but you may find it necessary to dirty your hands, once again. You’re already implicated.”

“Then I suppose you’d better tel me what you know. And what you want.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to control the pain. This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? For James to know the truth about her. Then she opened them, met his gaze as best she could, and told him about last night’s adventure with Honoria Dalrymple – the secret door in the herbarium, and Honoria’s empty-handed trip. “She may have been acting on instructions. She certainly expected to find the door.”

“So there’s an outside mastermind plotting …

what, though?”

Mary decided against mentioning the thefts. This was stil the Agency’s assignment, and she’d no business tel ing James anything beyond the essential. “That’s what we need to discover.”

“‘We’?”

Her stomach churned and she felt herself blushing yet again. “I beg your pardon; force of habit. I’ve no intention of luring you into something that doesn’t interest you.”

“Assuming I could be lured.”

“Natural y.” She tried not to sound too defensive.

She was, after al , the author of this disaster.

He was silent for a long moment. Then, abruptly, he asked, “What do you want from me?”