Traitor and the Tunnel (33 page)

“Father, I came for you. Are you sure you don’t want to run away?”

The faintest of smiles stretched his lips – an enormous effort, she was sure. “Tomorrow.”

She was crying now, utterly unable to stop the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Father, look.”

She fumbled for the jade pendant. “I wear it al the time. Every day possible since I found it.”

He looked at the pendant, but only for a moment.

Then his gaze returned to her face, drinking in her features. “You know.”

“Why you went away?” She shook her head. “The pendant survived through luck – I took it first, and was going back for the papers. They were burned in a fire before I could read them.”

A long silence. Then he blinked, a slow and painful movement. “Best.”

Lang’s mysterious departure. His so-cal ed mission. The ruin that had befal en him: al things she would never know. Not to mention tender tales of her childhood, the story of his marriage to her mother, the privilege of knowing her father as an adult. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her chest as she grasped the irony of her situation. A dead father who came back to life. A man who refused to acknowledge his paternity until it was too late. A man with the answers she craved, but who was too weak to speak them.

He half-raised a shaking finger. “My mother’s.”

“The pendant?” She thought she detected a nod.

“What does it mean?”

A pause. If she wasn’t wrong, a slight frustration.

“Too much.”

Whether she was asking too much, whether it meant too much – they were one and the same, now.

And that was fine, because it would have to be fine.

She dabbed his forehead once more with her handkerchief. Summoning her courage, she bent and kissed him. And, oddly – but perhaps it was entirely to be expected – beneath the stale sweat, the dirt, the sweetness of laudanum and the stink of infection, he smel ed familiar. He smel ed like her father.

As though her kiss was the benediction he’d awaited, his eyes slowly closed and his breathing seemed to ease. A wave of panic rose within her, and she clutched at his hand. “Father!” She wasn’t ready for this – not yet. She didn’t know what she was waiting for, when the time would be right, but it wasn’t now. Couldn’t be now.

His face contorted. She must be hurting his hand.

But when she released her tight grasp, he merely said, “Shhhh.”

She obeyed, not without difficulty.

In the stil ness that fol owed, she heard a new noise below: footsteps. Or, more precisely, bootsteps. Her heart beat double-time: a doctor, at last.

She

squeezed

Lang’s

fingers

gently.

Disentangled herself and stood. Mopped her face, blew her nose and hoped the single dim candle would cover the rest of the damage.

Yet the footsteps ascended the tower staircase at a stately pace, neither sluggish nor hurried. And by the new guard’s – the stand-in’s – hasty response, as he knocked over his chair in his haste to rise, this was a person of some eminence. Even had the gaoler kept his head, she would have known from the voice: deep, authoritative and crisp. “I require a word with prisoner Lang.”

“Y-your name, sir?” The turnkey’s voice was tentative.

“Never mind that.” There came the faint jingle of coins changing hands. “Now. Where is he?”

Mary frowned. She’d heard this voice before, and quite recently at that. Whether that made his refusal to identify himself more or less ominous, however, was unclear. As the footsteps came towards the cel ’s entrance, she stood and turned towards it. The two men fil ed the narrow doorway and the deep-voiced gentleman recoiled half a step, visibly surprised to see her.

“Who are you?” His voice was sharp with angry surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Mary curtseyed. “Miss Lawrence, of the St Andrew’s Church Ladies’ Committee. I’ve been ministering to prisoner Lang in his time of need.”

The man’s eyes raked her, cold and analytical. “I don’t see your prayer-book.”

“The prisoner requested a silent companionship.”

Mary hoped that the guard would be too overawed to contradict her on this; he must have heard the rise and fal of conversation from the cel . “And you, sir?”

Her voice was sweet enough but crisp, too – the tones of a middle-class woman unaccustomed to rude treatment.

“I?” He seemed unprepared for the question, but as he glanced about, the guard’s lantern il uminated his face clearly and Mary felt a surge of terror. She recognized the man now. Had first seen him at Buckingham Palace. He wasn’t wearing ful uniform

– his blue tunic was stripped of insignia and he carried no truncheon – but it was the same man: Commissioner Russel of the Metropolitan Police.

“Russel . Alfred Russel , on a private matter. If you would be so kind, ma’am, as to al ow me a brief interview with the prisoner. I shan’t be long.”

Mary’s impulse was to refuse, to make some sort of absurd, futile stand. Al her instincts screamed at the notion of abandoning her father to the commissioner of police. But caution prevailed. She would be of no use to Lang, unmasked and shamed.

And so she inclined her head, a trifle haughtily, and stepped from the cel with her chin high.

After a moment, Russel said to the guard, “He’s lucid?”

“I – don’t rightly know, sir. The lady might.”

Mary turned. “He is.”

“And he understands English, Miss Lawrence?”

“Perfectly.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

The stunned guard fol owed her after a moment, clearing his throat. “Afraid there’s no place fit for a lady to wait, ma’am.”

“This wil be sufficient,” she said, stopping in the antechamber. “Thank you.” She wil ed him to remain silent, not to torment her with explanations and clumsy smal talk. Al her senses were trained on the cel . She heard Russel – the name he’d given was similarly stripped of rank – clear his throat. There was a long pause. Then, stepping out of the cel , he said, “Here. Guard. Send for a physician.”

“Already done, sir. The lady – Miss Lawrence –

asked earlier.”

“Wel , tel him to hurry up. This man is dying.”

Such corroboration ought not to have surprised Mary. She had a more than passing acquaintance with death, having seen it al about her from a young age. Having cheated it herself. Yet when the fateful word left Russel ’s lips, she felt a pang. She hadn’t realized just how much hope she’d held out until that moment.

With a mutter – an apology? a curse? – the guard trundled down the tower stairs, hesitating only briefly as he glanced back at Mary. The moment his footsteps faded, Mary inched closer to the cel . She needn’t have bothered: Russel raised his voice to the pitch that people often use when addressing the deaf and the elderly. “Mr Lang, I come bearing news of the case in which you’ve been charged: the death of the Honourable Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth.”

A pause, here, but there was no response.

Russel continued. “I have recently been informed, by a new source, that you were not the aggressor in the altercation on Sunday morning. It is my present understanding that you were attacked, acted in self-defence and then continued to act in a – a type of frenzy. Is this information correct?”

Mary listened, half-hopeful, half-fearful, entirely spel bound. Eventual y, in a voice so low it was barely a scratch, he said, “Yes.”

“This changes the matter considerably, from the perspective of – an influential person. I am instructed to inform you that the charges against you have been altered. This person of influence believes that penal servitude without hard labour would be the most appropriate punishment for the kil ing of Mr Beaulieu-Buckworth.”

Mary drew in a short, sharp breath. This was beyond al expectations, al imaginings. And stil this whole episode had the quality of a dream: the dim, flickering light; the sudden, clearly unofficial appearance of the police commissioner; the references to “an influential person” who could only be the Queen. Her Majesty had been notoriously lenient in the past when attempts had been made on her life. At various times, young men who had fired pistols at Her Majesty’s person had received only brief imprisonment – a direct result of Queen Victoria’s compassionate nature. It stood to reason that in this case, although a life had been taken, the Queen remained concerned about the life that remained.

And how little of it remained. Mary’s heart felt close to bursting with a bittersweet compound of love, shame, hope and despair as she heard Lang struggle to respond to Russel ’s pinch-lipped message of clemency. He attempted to clear his chest again, with that painful rattle. In the end, he succeeded in saying nothing audible. Mary retreated just in time. In another half-minute, Russel emerged, sour-faced, brushing filth, both literal and figurative, from his tunic sleeves. Acknowledging Mary with the barest of nods, he stormed down the stairs.

She remained perfectly stil for a moment, thoughts as paralysed as her limbs. What on earth did this mean, real y? Despite Queen Victoria’s newly generous stance, it would change nothing about her father’s life. He was a dying man. Optimist though she was, she knew better than to imagine he’d make a miraculous recovery. Perhaps if his wound had received prompt attention; perhaps if he’d not gone on hunger strike and been brutal y force-fed; perhaps if he’d not been imprisoned; perhaps if he’d not been tormented by Beaulieu-Buckworth … the chain of possibilities wound on endlessly.

They had so little time left. She forced her limbs into motion, re-entering the cel with light steps.

“Father. I’m back.”

What remained of her father tried to turn towards her, but his head moved only a fraction of an inch.

He’d used what little energy that remained listening and responding to Commissioner Russel . Stil , his eyes slowly focused on her and he opened his lips.

That dreadful rattling sound came again.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t tire yourself talking. I’l just sit here with you.”

He blinked very slowly. Tried again. “Mary.”

She trembled with anticipation. “Yes, Father.”

His breathing seemed to ease a little, although speech appeared excruciating. “Wanted. To find.”

“Me?” she asked, breath catching.

“Shame. Opium.” His eyelids drooped, becoming too heavy for him to hold open.

Mary clasped his hand tighter. “I wouldn’t have cared. I would have loved you, no matter what.”

The faintest of smiles softened his mouth – not a ghastly effort, as the last had been, but a yielding. A benediction, Mary realized. She laced her fingers through his, straining her ears for anything that might be a word. The softest of sighs escaped his lips.

And then he was stil .

Mary watched, holding her breath. Waited, lest he was struggling, gathering strength, trying for something she feared to spoil or interrupt. A minute passed. Five. His cold hand began to grow colder yet, but she couldn’t bring herself to let go.

Only when she heard a respectful cough behind her did she realize the guard – the original guard –

had come back. Behind him stood an irritable-looking man carrying a battered doctor’s bag.

Gently, she placed Lang’s hand across his chest.

Stood. Realized, with a shock, that not only was she not crying but she felt perfectly numb. “He’s dead,”

she said, to nobody in particular.

The doctor scowled and pushed past her, slamming his bag about in an il -tempered fashion.

“I’l be the judge of that, miss.”

Mary stood aside. Looked at the turnkey. “What’s your name?”

“Baxter, miss. I mean, ma’am.”

“Baxter. I’l see to the burial. Don’t let anybody move him.” She thrust a few coins into the man’s slack hand and stepped past him. This blessed numbness was unlikely to last. But it would be enough to get her home – wherever that might be.

Outside the Tower, she found a cab without much difficulty. Climbed inside.

“Where to, miss?” asked the driver impatiently. It was a cold night, and his horse drooped miserably in the drizzle.

“St John’s Wood. No – Limehouse.” As the hansom turned clumsily, she cal ed out, alarmed,

“I’ve changed my mind – St John’s Wood!”

The cabman cursed under his breath. “Sure now, miss? I ain’t got al night.”

She wasn’t certain of anything any more. But the cabman was waiting. “Yes. Acacia Road.” For the last night, she hoped. And that, she realized, was the one thing of which she felt certain. What a pity that knowledge was al but useless.

Thirty-four

Friday, 17 February

Buckingham Palace

A n audience with the Queen. An audience with the Queen. The words drummed about Mary’s skul in time with her footsteps as she fol owed a new lady-in-waiting up two flights of silk-carpeted steps. It was only when she’d woken that morning, dry-eyed, that she remembered the letter in her handbag. It was a strange little epistle, exquisitely formal, signed by the Queen’s secretary. It commanded her to a meeting with Her Majesty at ten o’clock that morning. Mary felt no excitement, little curiosity. But she went because she could think of no reason she ought not.

Here at the Palace, there was no sign of Honoria Dalrymple, no mention of her name. And the new attendant, a stout, middle-aged woman with the gown of a Paris fashion-plate and the face of a fishwife, seemed to know precisely where she was going. This, combined with the strange novelty of walking down the centre of a carpet-runner, through the chandelier-lit, Old Masters-hung corridors of the Palace, made the past six weeks of Mary’s life seem a strange hal ucination. Only the startled look on the under-butler’s face as he’d admitted her confirmed the fact of Mary’s time spent below stairs.