Traitor and the Tunnel (17 page)

“Oh. Wel , I’ve revised my opinions a little since then.” Even in the dim yel owy light, she thought she could detect a slight blush climbing his cheeks. “The lady’s family is very respectable. I suppose people who care about that sort of thing would say that George has done wel .”

“Oh. Wel , then, what’s the difficulty?”

He turned and resumed walking. “Who said there was one?”

“You did – not in words, of course, but by your tone. Not to mention your general lack of enthusiasm.”

“Damn. I thought I’d got better at social hypocrisy.”

She smiled at his back. “Perhaps very slightly.”

“Thank you. I think.” They trudged on for a minute.

The water level in the sewer was rising slowly and liquid now swirled about their ankles, gleaming with grease. “There’s nothing properly wrong with Miss Ringley. It’s just that she giggles incessantly – her conversation is beyond inane – she listens to everything George says as though he’s, I don’t know, Moses delivering the Ten Commandments, and then says either, ‘Real y?’ or ‘How true!’. I swear, I’ve never heard her say anything else in response.”

James’s voice rose in agitation. “I don’t know how George hasn’t gone mad by now, but instead he’s enchanted by her.”

“She’s very beautiful.”

James spun about, ful y interested now. “How might you know? Have you been trailing George about town?”

Mary felt an absurd, unfounded flash of guilt. “Of course not. I saw her. She was at your house – on Sunday.” Even as she said the words, a deep blush wel ed up within her. Impossible to forget what else had happened on Sunday.

“She wasn’t.”

“The girl in the blue dress? Strawberry-blonde curls?”

James snorted. “Oh, that wasn’t Ringley. That was

– never mind. On Sunday afternoon, George was at the Ringleys’ home.”

Mary felt a wave of humiliation settle over her like a pal . Of course George would cal on his fiancée.

Of course James wouldn’t dal y on the rug with a girl he disliked. And of course he had lady friends aplenty. She was mad to have let their conversation stray into such personal matters: this was the inevitable price. “Where are we now?” she asked, feigning deep interest in the smeared and greasy brick wal s. She’d not been paying attention – had no idea how long they’d been walking, or the distance they’d travel ed.

James looked at her for a long moment, but she didn’t dare meet his gaze. When he spoke, his voice was neutral, impersonal. “We’ve been moving south beneath the Palace. We’re nearly at the disused tunnel you found the other night. Did you say you accessed it through the scul ery?”

“From one of the lesser-used wal s in the kitchens.”

“Right. So it’s quite recently built – within the last few generations, I mean. Any idea why?”

She shook her head. “If Buckingham Palace were genuinely old, it’d be quite obvious – a priest’s hole, or something like that. But it’s a new palace. George I I used it as a family home, and I can’t see him getting away with building a secret tunnel, even after he went mad. Wasn’t he under the very strict control of his doctors and advisers?”

James shrugged. “We could speculate endlessly.

But are there any physical clues as to why the tunnel was built?”

“By which you mean iron rings bolted into the wal for a secret torture chamber? Or racks for secret wine storage? Nothing of the sort. It’s a very blank, anonymous-feeling sort of tunnel.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m discussing the characters of various underground tunnels with you.”

“Wel , we’re here now.”

She squinted into the gloom and, sure enough, there was a black gap looming ahead that signified the mouth of a side tunnel. “What’s your theory?”

“Haven’t a clue. The tunnel doesn’t appear on any official diagrams or sewer maps, and it wasn’t mentioned to me by Palace officials. I thought I’d gone mad when I first noticed it.”

“What did you do?”

He shrugged. “I hadn’t much choice. The labourers have begun work at the tunnel’s mouth, for security reasons. I notified the Master of the Household, who’s equal y mystified. We’re stuck, until he decides what’s to be done.”

She blinked. “It’s been a couple of days, though.

Surely he’s got back to you by now?”

“You’d think. But apparently he needs a decision from

Her

Majesty

and

she’s

somewhat

preoccupied.” He fixed her with a sharp look. “By what, I’m not privileged to know. But I imagine you are.”

She’d known it would come to this. And this, at least, was not trespassing on the Agency’s territory.

“This is in absolute confidence.”

“Of course.”

“The Prince of Wales was involved in a violent incident on Saturday night. He’s physical y unharmed, but there’s a very real possibility of scandal attaching to him.”

“What sort of scandal?” He frowned. “And how could that possibly consume al Her Majesty’s attention?”

“He was drunk and in an opium den. A Lascar attacked him and kil ed his friend. It’s unclear whether the murder was accidental.”

James whistled. “The Prince of Wales was friends with Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth’s set? I’m surprised he’s permitted that sort of fast company.”

Her eyes widened. “So you know about the murder?”

“Of course. Al of London’s abuzz with it – although there are plenty of rumours and variations about who may or mayn’t have been at Beaulieu-Buckworth’s side at the time.” He looked at her curiously.

“Haven’t you read about it? Don’t the servants talk?”

Mary’s stomach twisted. She’d been so thoroughly distracted by the problem of Lang Jin Hai that she’d forgotten to consider public speculation or read the scandal sheets. The sorts of high-society gossip and newspaper coverage she needed were firmly suppressed both above and below stairs. It was like living in a specimen cage. But if James, who paid scant attention to idle rumours, had heard murmurs, then this was certainly London’s favourite subject.

“The servants,” she said slowly, “may be the last people in London to hear of the kil ing.” She was forcing herself to utter the dark words – “murder”,

“kil ing” – as a reminder of the magnitude of Lang’s actions. Of the sort of trouble she was up against.

“Gossip is strictly forbidden; whispering is practical y grounds for dismissal. Please, James – tel me what you’ve heard.”

He looked startled at her use of his given name.

“Of course. Though I must warn you, it’d be faster to tel you what I’d not heard. What’s general y known is that Beaulieu-Buckworth was in an opium den at an interesting hour. Although his family deny that he was intoxicated, it seems much more in character for the wretch to have been drunk and behaving offensively.

He was attacked – utterly without provocation, say his family – and kil ed.

“This is where the variations begin: some say he was the aggressor. Others say the kil er was an enemy, who’d disguised himself as a Lascar and lain in wait for the opportunity. Stil others say the entire den of opium smokers rushed him, en masse.

Some accounts have Beaulieu-Buckworth fleeing into the street, cal ing for help; others have him defending

himself

at

length,

before

final y

succumbing to the sheer number of assailants.

Real y, there’s no clear version and nothing like agreement, except on the fact that Beaulieu-Buckworth was a wild young man quite likely to die amidst scandal.”

“But what of his companion?” pressed Mary.

James shook his head. “In most versions he’s alone; in a few, he’s with a gang of young bucks, who either flee or help to defend him. There’s the odd story featuring the Prince of Wales – but then again, when isn’t there? I think that, ironically, one’s been discounted because there are always stories about the royal family. For such a prim family, they do get dragged into the most outlandish rumours.”

“The Queen’s predecessors – her uncles and grandfather – were a rich source of gossip, and most of it true,” Mary reminded him. “Perhaps it’s just habit.”

“Or wishful thinking.”

“But as far as you know, nobody seriously thinks the Prince of Wales is involved?”

“No.”

Mary was impressed. Although Her Majesty’s influence over the Metropolitan Police was purely unofficial, it was fascinating to see how absolute that command was. “So only the royal family, two top-ranking officers at Scotland Yard, and you and I know the truth.”

“Should I be impressed?” grumbled James. “The Prince of Wales should testify, not hide behind his influential parents. He’s the only person who knows the

truth

about

Beaulieu-Buckworth’s

death.

Regrettable as the young man’s life seems to have been, he stil deserves justice.”

Ah, yes – James the just. His absolute ideas about right and wrong were part of the wedge between them, and she flushed a little at this reminder. “So far, he’s not been able to remember anything. He was quite thoroughly intoxicated and his impressions are jumbled. The concern is whether exposure to public scrutiny and question in a court of law would serve any purpose at al .”

James’s mouth twisted. “And this is the future king of England: drink-addled, incoherent, standing by while his so-cal ed friends are stabbed by opium-addicted foreign criminals.”

“We can’t al be as perfect and moral y upright as you are,” she snapped.

“Surely the Prince has more reason than most to try. And why are you so indulgent towards his inadequacies, anyway? Don’t tel me you’re defending him!”

She said nothing. If James thought she meant Prince Bertie, so much the better. For how could she explain her instinctive, passionate defence of a murderous Lascar?

He stared at her for a moment, then raised his lantern and directed the light at her face. “Yes, I do believe you are: you’re trying to defend the Prince of Wales!” His expression was one of incredulity –

disbelief that was quickly doused by a scowl. “I hope you’re not developing tender feelings towards such a pathetic excuse of a man.”

“What?” she said, startled by the very idea.

He leaned closer, as though trying to read her thoughts.

She swatted the lantern away. “Stop looming and glowering at me.”

“You are, aren’t you? Just a little. Not because he’s dashing and rich and blue-blooded, but because he’s such a snivel ing little pup.” He made a sound of disgust. “Typical.”

“Typical what?” She was thoroughly exasperated now.

“Typical soft-hearted, romanticizing, nurturing female. He’s not worth your time or your heart, Mary.

He’s an inbred, overindulged, undisciplined excuse for a man. But I suppose my saying so wil only make you pity him the more.” He appeared angry now – an emotion that seemed utterly out of place.

Her own anger, however, felt entirely justified.

“First of al ,” she said, pushing him back, “I’m neither romantic nor nurturing; you should know that, above al others. And secondly, you’ve completely misread my – my position and my attitude towards the Prince of Wales.”

He blinked at her. “I have?”

“Of course you have! As though it’s remotely appropriate or likely that I’d feel that way! Do you think I’m attracted to intel ectual mediocrity, or self-indulgence, or drunkenness?” She felt like howling.

“And thirdly, why are we even having such a pointless spat?”

He grinned at her, and seemed suddenly to relax.

“Wel , we often do…”

She glared at him for a minute longer before sighing. “You are a deeply infuriating person.”

“I think I’ve said this before, but … pot and kettle.”

“Stop shining your lantern in my face.”

“It’s such a lovely face.”

“That’s enough nonsense,” she grumbled, trying to tamp down a little rush of pleasure at his compliment, no matter how strangely gained. “So what do we know? Only that there’s a secret tunnel, with no apparent purpose. It doesn’t seem recently or regularly used – it’s absolutely ful of cobwebs.

And it connects to the main sewer.”

“I’ve interviewed the flushers who maintain this portion of the sewer. They swear blind that they know nothing about it; that they thought it was merely another ventilation gril e.”

“What d’you mean, a ventilation gril e?”

“One of the risks inherent in sewers is that dangerous gases build up. Some can suffocate a party of men; others may cause explosions, especial y in the presence of flame. Ventilation gril es al ow the gases to escape upwards, above ground.”

Mary considered her lantern with new respect. “Do you believe them? About the gril e?”

“Wel , it makes a degree of sense. They can’t al be lying. And if anyone had investigated and realized it was a proper tunnel, it would surely have been mapped and brought to the Palace authority’s attention by now.”

Mary nodded. “Shal we take a look?”

Seventeen

They splashed their way to the opening, a rough circle about two and a half feet in diameter that occupied the upper half of the tunnel wal . It seemed entirely innocuous to Mary: no loose or broken bricks, no irregularities in the curved entry. It was simply a smooth oval opening, skimmed with mortar to make it uniform, and barricaded in a makeshift fashion with wooden planks.